


Trolley Problem

by marginaliana



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: M/M, Not Britpicked, because of course, hipster professors AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2018-12-08 22:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 65,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11656197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: There's a new writer in residence. James May, professor of philosophy, might really be in trouble.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luluxa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luluxa/gifts).



> Inspired by [Luluxa's incredible art](http://luluxa.tumblr.com/post/163538622831). After seeing those three, how could I not?

"Have you seen him?" James asked, leaning back against the low wall in the courtyard outside the faculty lounge. There was ivy all draped down the walls here, green rippling in the wind to expose the worn, ivory walls underneath – a cliché, yes, but it was a comfortable spot, one that allowed him to watch his colleagues as they came in and out and, more importantly, make snide commentary about them without being overheard.

"I've seen him," Richard allowed. He was sat at James side, though instead of leaning back he'd climbed onto the wall itself and contorted his legs up into an impossibly athletic knot. When people asked him about the position he tended to mumble vague things about chakra, but he'd admitted to James privately that it was just to stretch his quad muscles.

"And?" James said. They had a bet, the two of them. Every year there was a new writer in residence – a person who, inevitably, fell into one of three categories: wizened old arsehole, Byronic, or fuckable. Gender was irrelevant. To the students' eyes, the categories of Byronic and fuckable had a certain permeability, but James, who generally preferred his relationships to involve as little standing on a windswept hillside and/or looking soulfully into each other's eyes as possible, had never found much difficulty in separating the two. 

Richard made a noncommittal noise.

In the last four years they'd had wizened old arsehole, fuckable but aloof, Byronic, and then wizened old arsehole again, perhaps because the administration had realized that their Byronic choice had been slightly too willing to stand on windswept hillsides with students.

James flicked a glance sideways and saw the faintest trace of a smirk on Richard's face. He tugged up the edge of his turtleneck, feeling a sudden chill. " _And?_ Fuckable, I take it."

"Intensely," Richard said. One of his hands reached up to fiddle with the curled end of his mustache, then up further to swipe his hair back. "If you're not careful I think you might come over all middle-aged queer."

"I _am_ a middle-aged queer," James felt compelled to point out.

"You know what I mean," said Richard. He wriggled a pack of cigarettes out of his trouser pocket, thumbed open the flap and tapped until one of them slid out. "You're about due for a crisis and he is definitely crisis-worthy."

"Thought you were trying to quit," James said, partly just to be contrary and partly because he didn't have any sort of comeback. He _was_ getting a little antsy just at the moment – no one currently sharing his bed, nothing else exciting to keep his attention. He was between musical projects, his last band having fallen apart when the drummer got a tenure-track position at Harvard, and everything else just seemed a bit… pale. There was teaching, of course, but that wasn't anyone's idea of excitement.

"Piss off," Richard said genially, but after a moment he slid the cigarette back into the pack.

"What about you, then?" James said, pursuing the point. "Or are you and Ols on again?"

"Off," Richard said, his smirk sliding away into a decidedly gloomy expression. His left hand curled around his right forearm, just where Oliver's name was written. They'd been on-again, off-again for as long as James had known Richard, and he never really knew their status at any given moment unless he asked. Richard was notoriously closed-mouthed about what their problems actually were and so James tried not to twit him about it too much. But there had been times when they were off-again and Richard had dragged James out somewhere on the pull or introduced him to the hot young thing of the moment, only to abandon the poor bastard three days later when Oliver came back. So it wasn't entirely inconceivable that Richard would set his sights on this new man, whoever he was.

"But no, no," Richard said. "I mean, he looks like he'd be an athletic shag. Fighty. But not quite my style."

"But he's my style?" James asked, regretting the question before he'd even finished asking it.

"Oh, yeah."

James thought about pressing him for more detail – had even opened his mouth to do it – when the whole conversation was cut short by a tremendous bang as the door of the faculty lounge was flung open and a man came striding out.

_Oh, fuck me,_ James thought. The man was tall, broad, his square jaw hidden behind a thick white beard and his head topped in an implausible mass of white curls. The collar of his coat was turned up against the wind but underneath he wore a thin tee, vee-cut to reveal a pale sprinkle of hair. James immediately wanted to know him, wanted to know him _biblically_ , wanted to put his mouth to the stars – or were they flowers? – tattooed as a climbing path up the side of the man's neck.

He wanted it so badly that he barely noticed the man actually coming in their direction until he was almost upon them, holding out a hand. "May!" the man said, his voice only just short of a bellow. Heads turned all over the courtyard. "It is James May, isn't it? I'm Jeremy Clarkson."

James leaned forwards, against his better judgment, and shook hands. Clarkson's palm was warm and strong, his handshake confident without being crushing. "I'm the new writer in residence," he said.

_Of fucking course you are,_ James thought. "Pleasure," he said, and was proud that it came out only a little bit strangled.

"And Hammond, of course," Clarkson said. He and Richard nodded at each other. "Listen," Clarkson carried on, turning his gaze back to James. This close, it was devastating, eyes such a piercing blue that James' stomach squirmed. "Part of what they want me to do this year is have it be all inter— thingie," he said, waiving a hand airily. James had no idea what 'inter-thingie' was supposed to mean, but Clarkson carried on before he could ask. "So what I'd really like is to make the students think creatively about the other work that they're doing. That way it's something real, something that kicks you in the teeth instead of just lying there limply on the page."

"Right."

"And a lot of your students are in my classes. So I'm hoping you'd be willing to have drinks, coffee, something like that, and we can talk about what's on your lesson plan for the term. That way I can pick one of your assignments to tie in."

"That… sounds fine," said James. He was already imagining what it would be like to sit across from Clarkson in a bar in soft golden lamp light, whether it would soften the white of his hair or hide the craggy pieces of his face, whether Clarkson would drink scotch or gin or just craft beer like every other sod teaching here. "Happy to." Richard's elbow dug into his side. James manfully ignored it.

"Wonderful," said Clarkson. He tugged a notebook and pen out of his pocket and scribbled something across the page, angular, running roughshod over the ruled lines. "Here's my email and my number. Let me know when you've got time."

"I will," James said, taking the paper. He couldn't quite shake the sensation that all of this was out of his control, that his body and mouth were operating entirely on their own initiative. 

"Got to go now – bloody Wilman wants to meet about something or other." He rolled his eyes, gave James a flash of smile and Richard a nod, and then swept off before James could think to do more than blink at him.

"Well?" Richard said, when Clarkson was gone. "Fuckable? Because as you recall, the price was one guest lecture on a subject of the winner's choice."

James stared down at the piece of paper in his hand. "Dammit, Rich," he said, and then, "Right, what do you want me to lecture on?"


	2. Chapter 2

James thought about making Clarkson wait, but it was only a few weeks until the beginning of the term and anyway he knew that meeting him for drinks wouldn't get any less difficult if he put it off, and so the next morning, after sleeping off the hangover from the previous night's desperate attempt to drink himself into oblivion, he sat down at his laptop and dashed off an email.

_Clarkson,_

_I'm free on Friday after six or any time over the weekend. There's a decent pub down on Rosemont if you like, the Hart and Hound. Or feel free to suggest something closer to yours._

He set himself to work after that, making at least a pretense that he wasn't waiting for a reply – but the way his stomach lurched when his inbox dinged put paid to that idea pretty quickly.

_The Hart and Hound is perfect – meet you there at seven on Friday? And call me Jeremy, for fuck's sake._

James would have liked not to be charmed by that. He shot off a reply of acknowledgment (and a reciprocal offer to be addressed as James) and then resolutely turned back to the edits on his latest article, trying not to think about the sound of his name in Clarkson's mouth.

\-----

Friday came all too quickly and not nearly quickly enough. By then the influx of students had begun, filling the streets with white vans parked halfway up the curb and the pavements with teenagers, screaming thrilled to see each other again after the months away or feebly trying to extract themselves from the arms of weeping parents. James was tired of wading through them, tired of struggling with the fatuous commentary of his so-called peer reviewers and, worst of all, tired of the departmental meetings he was forced to attend despite nothing having changed in years. Richard had been busy for days, sourcing the material for the builds he had planned for the term, and they'd barely had time to exchange a few short emails about the disaster area that was the administration's plan for a new building on the west campus. All of which meant that James was looking forward to the prospect of a drink completely irrespective of who it was with. 

The Hart and Hound was off in a back street and served pleasingly-authentic pub food, reasonably-priced wine and scotch and beer with twigs in, but none of the newfangled cack that young people tended to drink, which meant it was mostly free of students. James tugged the door open and slipped inside, letting his eyes adjust to the lower light as he took in the room to see if Clarkson had got there before him.

And there he was, seated at a booth in the back corner. He had a notebook out on the table and was bent over it, writing industriously. James took the opportunity to look him over again now that he could be sure Clarkson wasn't watching. The weather had gone unseasonably warm and so he was without the coat but wearing another thin tee, this one a deep forest green that set off his hair marvelously.

He hadn't got any less gorgeous in the intervening days, unfortunately. That hair, those curls – even the buzzed sides failed to soften the impact of them, failed to hide how fucking _coiffed_ they looked. James wondered how long he spent every day primping them, making them look just so. Alarmingly, the idea wasn't putting him off. It was just making him think about getting his hands into them.

_Once more unto the breach,_ he thought, and crossed the room to slide into the booth. "Evening."

"James!" Clarkson said, lifting his head. His voice was physically quieter than it had been in the courtyard, but it seemed to have lost none of its strength. He dropped his pen onto the open spread of the notebook and pushed it aside. "Thanks again for coming."

"Of course," James said. They shook hands over the table; James forced himself not to let it linger.

"Hope I'm not taking up too much of your time," Clarkson said. "Or are you prepared for the term already?"

"More or less," James allowed. "I've been here long enough that it isn't difficult." 

"Well, I hope you'll be willing to tell me all about it," said Clarkson – Jeremy, he was Jeremy. James willed himself to remember that. It was a relentlessly prosaic sort of name, difficult to scream in bed without seeming ridiculous. That had to be worth something. "But let me buy you a drink first. What d'you fancy?"

James mentally suppressed a number of responses to that and instead named one of the lagers that he knew the pub had on tap. Jeremy nodded and stood, leaving his notebook lying open. James tried not to let himself look at it and failed almost immediately. It was ragged at the edges, obviously well-used, filled up with a dense handwriting that made it impossible to make out more than a few letters, upside down as it was.

_Probably for the best. Imagine if it was erotica. Wait, fuck, don't imagine it. Don't even begin to imagine it._

A minute later Jeremy was back, sliding James' pint to him across the table.

"A bit old school, isn't it?" James said, nodding at the notebook.

"Yes," Jeremy admitted. "But I'm old. Of course I've got a computer and a phone and all that nonsense, it's necessary. But for writing there's nothing like _writing_ , nothing like the feel of paper under your palm and the flow of the pen." He reached out and touched the edge of the notebook idly with one thumb and forefinger. "And it helps not to lose your first thoughts, as well. So often we have good ideas and then erase them out of existence as soon as we consider that someone else might see them." 

This speech came out more quietly than anything he'd said so far, more sincere. _Shit,_ James thought. _I didn't expect to actually like him. Why couldn't he have just been an intense wet dream specially designed to make me lose my sanity? That would have been easy._ "You should give that speech on day one," he said. "Minus the bit about being old, of course. I think they can work that much out for themselves."

Jeremy gave a gurgling laugh. "I should hope so. As for the speech…" He rubbed one hand over his chin, ruffling the beard in all directions, and didn't bother to smooth it down again. "I suppose I'll have to start with something."

"Have you done much teaching, then?" James asked, reaching for his pint and taking a sip. He hadn't allowed himself to google it, not wanting to lose an entire afternoon to obsessing and trying not to have a wank.

"Not much, no. I've worked with a few kids, relatives of a friend or a promising student that Wilman recommended to me. We went to school together," he elaborated, at James' raised eyebrow. "He's not above leveraging his blackmail material to get me to take someone on. But that's all been one-on-one, not any sort of class."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," James said, which could have been a platitude except that he really did believe it. Jeremy had a magnetic quality to him; it wouldn't be difficult for him to keep the attention of the students, and that was half the battle.

"Yes, well," Jeremy said. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." He flashed James a small, glittering smile and then reached for his notebook, thumbing the page over to a clean one and scribbling something at the top. "So. I was thinking ethics."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may want to just skim [the Wikipedia article on the trolley problem](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trolley_problem) to get a sense of the background, although the details aren't supremely relevant.

It was remarkably easy to fall into the camaraderie of colleagues, even as evening fell and the shadows in the pub twisted around them like a cloak of incense. Perhaps it was just that James hadn't had a discussion with an interested, intelligent companion for ages; his colleagues were mostly wrapped up in their own research and the students, however interested some of them were, simply didn't have the background or experience to make it a conversation instead of a lecture. Whereas Jeremy, while by no means an expert, had at least enough knowledge of the basic concepts that he could ask questions that didn't make James want to throw himself under a bus.

At some point James bought another round of drinks and then Jeremy bought dinner, and they worked their way through James' entire syllabus one class at a time.

"I like the idea of the trolley problem," Jeremy said at last. He held up a hand to stifle James' protest. "No, I know, I know, it's fatuous and simplistic. That's why it's perfect. I can give it to them as a scenario at the beginning, just after you've taught it, and then I can bring it back again at the end to try and make them understand – it's about breaking out of the structure. Looking behind the scenes of all the stories we're taught to follow. You don't have to have the bloke win the girl in the end, or solve the mystery, or whatever. Just like you don't have to choose between one track and the other."

"That's… not bad," James said. "I rather like it."

Jeremy gave him another one of those quick smiles. "So that's, what, second week of term?"

"Right."

"Great." Jeremy sat back. "Now I just have to fill the rest of it."

"Just out of curiosity, who else are you planning to work with?"

"Well, someone suggested I talk to Morgan—"

"Morgan's an unmitigated shit," James said, "so I really wouldn't recommend it."

Jeremy snorted out a laugh. "All right, consider him off the list. Who _would_ you recommend?"

"Depends on what you're looking for," James said. He scrubbed a hand over his chin. "I'm assuming you want to avoid the obvious, like theatre."

"Right, yes."

"How about agriculture? I honestly have no idea what you'd do with it, but there's a reasonably sociable idiot in that department who'd be happy to do me the favor of talking to you."

"Reasonably social idiot sounds far better than unmitigated shit," Jeremy said, "and agriculture will be a nice challenge. Let's do it."

\-----

The term began – unfortunately. James gave a modified version of the same speech to three of his four classes and then a minimalist one for his advanced seminar.

("Pick a topic to write about. Don't bore me. Ten pages a week or be prepared to explain why not. Starting next week I'll pick one of you at random to read from your work, and everyone else will find something intelligent to say about it, hopefully.)

Luckily, all of the advanced students had come prepared with a topic already, and so he was able to dedicate most of the class session to a sort of idea-based scrum where they had at each other viciously with minimal input from him.

Still, by the time the weekend rolled around he was exhausted. On Saturday morning he slept in, then dragged himself up in the early afternoon to meet Richard at Prufrock Coffee for their usual first espresso of the term.

Richard was there already; he looked as ragged as James felt, with his hair all flopped to one side and mustache limp. He'd claimed a table, his feet propped up on the opposite chair to just to make sure no one made off with it. James caught his eye and gestured towards the counter. Richard had a glass in front of him but it was empty, and he nodded emphatically. 

James ordered two double shot espressos and carried them to the table, dropping his bag next to the chair. Richard regarded him sardonically but after a moment he dropped his feet without further protest. James slumped down into the seat.

"Right, shall we get it over with?" said Richard. 

James picked up his glass. "Might as well." With the other hand he held up one finger, then two, then three, and they said, in unison, "Christ, the students look so young!" They clinked glasses and drank.

It never failed to make him smile, this ritual. Starting off the term without it would have been like starting without his head – he'd have kept wondering what happened to it. "So," James said. "Who's your Neville Longbottom this year?"

"His name's Ken Stebbins," said Richard. 

"And first exploding cauldron of the term?"

"Knocked over the whole pyramid of ball bearings, you know, the one that last year's advertising design class built. Went fucking everywhere."

James winced. "Dramatic."

"He tripped over some of them while he was scrambling to help, too. Nearly bashed his head in on the corner of a table. The first aid kit is well stocked up – I made sure last week, and then I made sure again after all of that." Richard sighed. "What about you? Who's your yearly radical Marxist?"

"Don't know yet," said James. "I've a couple of possibilities but they're all keeping suspiciously quiet at present. I've still got Cleary from last year, though. She hasn't given up trying to convert me."

Richard rolled his eyes. "How's that working? Any pressing desire to quit your job and go preach to the proletariat?"

"Surprisingly, no," said James.

"How'd things go with Clarkson?" Richard asked.

James groaned. "There should be a law against being that gorgeous." 

"Yes, but was he a bastard?"

"No," James said gloomily. "I liked him." He took a drink of espresso.

"Oh horror of horrors."

James raised two fingers at him. "Of course it's good that he's not a bastard," he said, "but if he were, at least I could put him firmly into the 'fuckable but bastard' category and move on."

"You could put him into the 'friends with fucking' category."

"I hate that category," James said. "I don't _want_ to sleep with people I actually like. It only leads to trouble."

Richard gave him a look.

"Anyway, I don't know that we'll even run into each other again," James said. "We hashed out what he's going to cover in his class and I gave him some recommendations of other people to talk to. Probably that'll be the end of it." He didn't know whether he was glad of that or not, but at least it seemed like the whole thing was out of his hands.


	4. Chapter 4

Four days later, he got an email from Jeremy. 

_What's there to do around here on the weekend? I've been idling around but I really don't know the city that well. I don't suppose you'd like to entertain me._

James stared at it for a long time. He didn't know how to say no to that – worse, he didn't _want_ to say no. For any number of reasons, some less stupid than the others. Finally he hit reply.

_If you can handle being awake on Saturday morning, meet me at 9 over on Tremont by the fountain, and I'll let you tag along with one of my weekend pastimes. Whether it'll entertain you or not, I've no idea._

The reply came almost instantly. _Ooh, mysterious. All right, I'll bite. See you then._

\-----

The following Saturday rolled around with a mechanical predictability. James worked through his morning routine – tidying the edges of his beard and mustache, applying beard oil, donning his turtleneck and a pair of dark jeans. And if he allowed himself a little extra time to adjust the rolled sweep of his hair just so. Well. No one needed to know.

Jeremy was waiting by the fountain; the weather had gone unseasonably warm and so the coat was nowhere in sight, only another one of those threadbare tees, short-sleeved, exposing a wholly unnecessary amount of skin. He was apparently heedless of the gusts of wind which sent glittering spray up from the water behind him. James thought of Triton, rising from the sea – it would have been an apt image, if only Triton were likely to be wearing tight jeans and have a coffee cup in each hand.

Both the cups were proffered to James as he approached. "Flat white?" Jeremy said, waggling his left hand. "Or café cortado?" He waggled the other hand. "Or should I just drink both myself? Trust me, I can handle it."

James smirked and took the cortado, noting that it was from Prufrock. "Cheers." It was still hot.

"Least I could do," Jeremy said gruffly. "Since you're entertaining me."

"You might be giving me too much credit on that score," said James, and then, "Come on, then. It's this way."

Jeremy followed him obediently past the fountain and down through a warren of streets, neither of them speaking, to the edge of the Saturday market. There was a line of shops there, all looking out over the assorted stalls – one sold tourist tat but the rest were more interesting, a little shop selling community-made crafts, a posh off-license, a boutique with African-inspired clothing, and – James' destination at last – the record shop. Jeremy huffed out an amused breath when he saw where they were going, but he didn't protest or claim a suddenly-pressing appointment. 

James held the door for him, but once they were inside he headed straight for the long line of crates arranged down the center of the store, the 99p collection. It was a tremendous unsorted mass of stuff – the staff had been through it, probably, but they'd have been in a hurry and most of it was shit, so if James was lucky, he might find an overlooked gem.

Jeremy followed him bemusedly at first, flipping through what appeared to be someone's dubious disco offcuts. Then he wandered off to another part of the store; James could see him out of the corner of his eye, picking things up to examine and then putting them back again, most likely appalled by the prices. James carried on with his systematic search, crate-by-crate, across the tabletop and then down to the crates on the floor, trying not to let himself get distracted wondering what Jeremy was up to. 

Mostly he was too engrossed in his own task; it was soothing, rhythmic. Flip, assess, flip, assess. Occasionally the pattern would stutter as something caught his eye and earned a longer assessment, but he preferred to just collect any potential purchases as he went along and then examine them all together at the end. 

Halfway through it became clear that Jeremy was getting bored. He came back to where James was crouched on the floor and touched him on the shoulder; when James looked up, Jeremy jerked his head towards the door. James gave him a nod and a smile and watched him go – with an indulgent gaze at his arse in those jeans – before turning back to his task.

He tried not to be disappointed that Jeremy hadn't stayed – really, he was surprised that he'd lasted even this long. Most people didn't have the patience for real crate-digging; it was a task for die hard professionals, or those who, like James, were a bit obsessive. Or both. For everyone else, there were plenty of other ways to spend a Saturday morning.

When he'd finally gone through everything, James considered his stack and culled three of them, sliding them back into the closest crate for someone else to find. The other two he took to the register and bought, getting a nod from Dave the cashier.

When he came out of the store, Jeremy was waiting. He was leant back against the brick wall beside the door, one ankle crossed over the other, and he had his notebook cupped in his left hand, scribbling into it. James felt a surge of pleasure at the sight of him, all the more intense from having expected nothing at all.

"Anything good?" Jeremy said.

"Nothing spectacular," said James, tucking his purchases carefully into his bag. "A few nice things, but no gems." He tipped his head to the left and started walking; Jeremy fell into step beside him.

"Too bad. Do you often find something amazing?" 

"Not really, no," James admitted. "You have to be happy with the hunt and the small delights, or else it's a fool's errand. But there's always the lure of the great find, the magical moment when you see something supremely rare. It's every crate digger's dream, I suppose. Of course, you also have to be able to know it when you see it."

"And do you? Is there something specific you'd like to find?"

"There are a few famously priceless things, which I'd like to stumble across just for money's sake. For my own taste it's more about having a complete collection, obviously."

Jeremy nodded.

"But I do worry about collecting things too rare to play," James said. 

"Because then you get paranoid about damaging them," said Jeremy.

"Exactly," said James. "I've got a nice setup at home – I want to be able to use it. And… it's music. It's meant to be listened to."

"A nice setup, eh?" Jeremy said, casting a sideways glance at him. 

_Am I really going to invite him back to mine to listen to records?_ James thought.

"Put up with another shop and then you can come and hear it," he said, and tried not to be pleased when Jeremy's mouth quirked into a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold luluxa's [incredible art of Jeremy waiting by the fountain.](http://luluxa.tumblr.com/post/164035255891/jeremy-was-waiting-by-the-fountain-the-weather) <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen [Luluxa's illustration for chapter 4](http://luluxa.tumblr.com/post/164035255891/jeremy-was-waiting-by-the-fountain-the-weather), you will want to check it out now. <3 
> 
> There's a certain amount of prog rock name dropping here - I've added a list of youtube links at the end if you fancy hearing them.

After the second shop they walked back to James' flat, past the fountain and across campus, smoking and arguing genially about what constituted proper music. Jeremy preferred his with more guitar than keyboard and was wholly uninterested in jazz, but they shared a fondness for obscure prog rock and somewhere along the line the discussion devolved into simply trading names.

"Rick Wakeman," said Jeremy.

"Yes, _obviously_. Don't insult my intelligence. Motor Totemist Guild."

"Oh, well, if you're going to get all avant-prog xylophones and heavy breathing, sure. Passable, I suppose. Does that mean you like Henry Cow?"

"Ehhh," said James. "All right. Point taken. Wishbone Ash?"

"Yeah, that's good. Quintessence?"

"Are you taking the piss?" James said. "It's twee shit."

"Oi!" said Jeremy. 

"Well, it is!" said James. "Circus?"

"They did that Norwegian Wood cover, right? I like that one, although I've only heard an electronic copy."

"I've got it, so we can listen to it if you'd like."

"Yeah, cheers," said Jeremy. "Ozric Tentacles?"

" _Yes_. I've been hoping to find the LP release of their early cassette only albums," James said. "King Crimson?"

"Now you're the one insulting _my_ intelligence," said Jeremy, but James didn't have a chance to think of a comeback to that because by then they'd arrived, and climbing the stairs up to the third floor took more effort than it should. 

He occupied himself with opening the door while he caught his breath. "Shoes off," he said; Jeremy kicked them off obediently by the door but he wasn't really paying attention. Instead he was already stepping forward into the room, drawn as if by a magnet, with a fascinated expression on his face. 

James tried to see the flat as it must look to an outsider – tidy, certainly, but too crammed full of things to be anything like minimalist. Shelving all along one wall, half filled with records in alphabetical order by artist and the other half filled with books sorted by color, because he rather fancied the rainbow effect and he was familiar enough with his collection that he never had trouble finding what he wanted. A chaise longue, upholstered in crushed blue velvet, so dark as to be almost black except when the sunlight hit it just so, and a matching wing-backed armchair. In the corner, his massive globe, hinged open to display the neat rows of glittering bottles. French doors leading out to a minuscule balcony.

A rather classy joint, he thought.

Still, he couldn't help but be nervous, waiting for Jeremy's reaction. A home revealed quite a lot about someone – if Jeremy didn't like this, then probably they wouldn't get on at all, in the long term.

_Stop thinking about the long term,_ James told himself, but it was feeble and he knew it.

Jeremy began to walk a slow circle around the room. From this angle James couldn't see his face, just the slight tilt to his body as he occasionally leaned in to peer at something more closely. At one point he reached out idly and ran one finger across the top of the chaise; James couldn't decide if he was more anxious about the impending judgment or aroused by the gesture. He could imagine himself bending Jeremy over the back of the chaise, fucking him – could imagine getting him naked on it, getting down on his knees and just sucking him off, hard and fast and urgent. He'd probably never get the come out of the velvet, but it would be worth it.

Jeremy finished his circuit of the room at last, turning around. "Nice," he said simply. 

James flushed. "This coming from a man who likes Quintessence," he said, and then, somewhat desperately, "Coffee?"

Jeremy smirked, shaking his head. "But can I smoke?"

"Open the window," James said, gesturing at the french door leading out to the balcony. Jeremy did so, letting in fresh air and the distant sound of footsteps on the street below, the ding of a bicycle bell, the murmur of voices. James took the opportunity to sling off his bag, hanging it on the hook by the door before he tugged out today's purchases. "What do you want first, Circus? Or do you want to challenge me for something _really_ unusual?"

"Oh, let's have Circus," Jeremy said, lighting up. "Probably the rest of this is just ninety percent disco."

James rolled his eyes. "You sound like Richard," he said, crossing to the bookcase to add the new albums. "He's never happier than when taking the piss about my music choices. Although he pretty much only listens to things written after 1995, so he rarely manages to make a jab that's actually on target. He probably thinks Henry Cow is a friend of Postman Pat."

Jeremy snorted, but a moment later he said, abruptly, "You and Hammond, then?"

"Mmm?" James said, and then, turning, "Oh Christ no. What an absolutely dreadful thought. We wouldn't suit in the slightest. Friends, yes, but otherwise? No. Also, Oliver would murder me with a tire iron if I even so much as entertained the idea."

Jeremy huffed in amusement. "Oliver?"

"Richard's… thing. Boyfriend, I suppose. They're." He grappled for the right word. "Tumultuous."

"Ah."

"You'll meet him at some point," James said, and then immediately wondered why he'd said it. It was assuming a hell of a lot. But Jeremy didn't comment on it, just flashed him a grin. 

James still wasn't used to that smile; he turned away to hide how flustered it made him, tugging the Circus album from the shelf and crossing to the stereo to put it on.

James settled into the chair and Jeremy on the chaise, at first more or less upright and then slumping gradually sideways until he was stretched out along it with his head tipped back over the end – a position that exposed the line of his neck in a highly distracting manner. He was a good listening partner, not too inclined to talk during the intense bits but otherwise full of amusing anecdotes, memories of where he'd been when he first heard something or other or his opinions about how different pieces related to each other, especially lyrically. He seemed to enjoy James' anecdotes in turn and at one point had a serious laughing fit in the middle of 'Erudite Eyes' when James told his story about waiting at the stage door for Robert Fripp.

Before James quite knew what was happening, three hours passed. They made their way through _Circus_ and then _The Cheerful Insanity of Giles, Giles and Fripp_ and then _Mogul Thrash_ ; when they hit the end of the that one, the music died off into hissing silence. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and then at last Jeremy raised his head and checked his watch. "I'd better go," he said, sounding regretful. "I'm supposed to meet Wilman in an hour to talk about my long-term educational objectives. Which I'm sure is code for 'Have you got any idea what the fuck you are doing?'"

James snorted. "And the answer is no?"

"The answer is absolutely no," Jeremy agreed, sitting up. "But the kids are writing things and reading them, so he'll have to be satisfied with that."

Something about the way he said it made James ask, impulsively, "You and Wilman, then?"

Jeremy stood up and then blinked at him. "No, no. What was the language you used? Oh, yes. What an absolutely dreadful thought. And anyway, he's—" He waved a hand. "Very, very straight." There was an unspoken message there – namely, that Jeremy was _not_ so very straight. James felt a thrill run through him. 

"Ah," he said, trying to keep his voice light. He stood up as well. "Well, cheers for coming this morning."

"I enjoyed it," Jeremy said, crossing to the door and slipping his shoes on. "I mean, apart from the bit where you flipped through every piece of late eighties synth pop trash for miles around, obviously. But the rest of it was fairly un-terrible." James raised two fingers at him and he smirked before continuing. "D'you go out every Saturday?"

_Oh, god,_ James thought. _He's angling for an invitation._ "Most weeks," he said. "Want to come next week?"

"Love to," Jeremy said, and now there was a hint of shyness in his smile.

"I'll email you," James promised, and Jeremy said nothing more, just tugged the door open, gave him a wave, and closed it behind him as he went. James waited until the sound of his footsteps had gone down the stairs and out of earshot before he put his face and his hands and went, "Bugger, bugger, _bugger_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sample playlist of the artists from this chapter:  
> [Rick Wakeman – Catherine Parr](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80qazT7VQsI) (a classic)  
> [Motor Totemist Guild – Ameratsu](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4xkl4mu_-w) (I hate this)  
> [Henry Cow – Nirvana for Mice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwoJ3-_wZOI)  
> [Wishbone Ash – Time Was](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SjIvjmJQJYE)  
> [Quintessence – Wonders of the Universe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N5C2ku7K7eQ) (this is, indeed, twee as fuck)  
> [Circus – Norwegian Wood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5nQzQB6csQQ) (I love this one)  
> [Ozric Tentacles – Eternal Wheel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UVZxpoq166Q)  
> [King Crimson – The Court of the Crimson King](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvCmtHDDuu0)  
> [Giles, Giles & Fripp – Erudite Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLukUKA1khM)  
> [Mogul Thrash – Elegy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ALuhhNhA23Q)


	6. Chapter 6

"He actually stayed while you went through five billion acres of trumpet noodling albums?" said Richard incredulously.

"You are an unutterable Philistine," said James, leaning back against the wall in the faculty courtyard. "But yes, he did."

"And he wants to come back again next weekend."

"Apparently."

"He wants to be friends with you. The man must be mental."

"Oh, ta," said James. "Is this the moment when I remind you that _you're_ friends with me?"

"But I already know I'm mental," said Richard. "The point is, you invited him to do a thing with you that didn't involve nakedness. Does that mean you don't still want to fuck him?"

"Of course I still want to fuck him! Dead people want to fuck him! People who haven't even been born yet want to fuck him! I'm surprised there isn't a global crisis about it."

"You realize that makes no sense," Richard said.

"I can't be bothered with making sense," James said. "I'm too busy dying of sexual frustration. He practically _lounged_ on the chaise and I thought I was going to give myself a heart attack. Christ."

"Maybe he'll get irritating," said Richard, though he didn't sound like he really meant it.

"Maybe," said James. "But I don't think getting irritating is going to solve the problem of his incredible arse." He wanted to talk about something else, anything else, and so spent about three seconds flailing for a topic before settling on, "So are you and Oliver back on yet?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Richard sag. "No," he said. He unfolded his legs from their ridiculous lotus position and then refolded them almost immediately. "Maybe we won't be. I think this might be it."

"What?" said James, turning to look at him full on. "Rich, you've had fights before."

"I know, I know," said Richard. "But, I dunno. Maybe I'm just getting old."

"What, thirty nine?" James joked. Richard had been thirty nine for the last four years at least. But he didn't seem inclined to take the bait.

"You know what I mean," he said. "It used to be… not fun, that's not what I mean, but it used to add zing to things when we fought. You know. Make up sex."

James nodded, although he hadn't had a relationship that survived a falling out in years.

"But now it just makes me depressed. I don't want to have a shag in a club toilet anymore, not even to take my mind off it. I don't want anyone else and it isn't worth pretending I do."

"You think he does? Want someone else?"

"I don't, really," Richard admitted. "But he wants something. He just won't tell me what it is. Says that if I haven't got it by now maybe I'll never get it."

"Well, that's helpful." James said, rolling his eyes.

"Don't—" Richard said sharply. "Don't slag him off, all right?" James raised his hands in surrender and Richard sighed. "I know he's cryptic and temperamental and as complicated as a fucking Rube Goldberg machine, but I do actually love him."

"What are you going to do, then?" James asked quietly.

"Grovel, I suppose. Even if I don't know what I'm groveling for. Suggest we go on holiday, maybe. We haven't been anywhere interesting in a while and the end of term isn't so far away."

He didn't sound particularly optimistic about this strategy; James more or less agreed, but he felt that after having been critical of Oliver even momentarily, he ought to say something supportive. "Sounds like a good idea," he said. "Maybe you just need time alone without any distractions."

"Yeah," Richard said. He perked up a little. "Somewhere exotic. Greece. Iceland… Romania!"

James kept his mouth shut and nodded.

\-----

Crate-digging with Jeremy that Saturday became two Saturdays became three, and by then it was a habit. After that first trip, Jeremy seemed to get into the spirit of things, in his way – he always bought an album or two from the discount bins, chosen according to some obscure criteria of his own but which appeared to involve the outrageousness of the band name and/or the cover art. Then he'd find a place to sit or lean and scribble in his notebook until James was done. 

If there was a second shop within a reasonable distance they'd do that one as well, then go back to James' place and listen to what they'd bought – usually prog rock or avant-prog keyboard from James, and Jeremy's motley selection. Sometimes that was seventies disco, which would have been best left languishing in the crate to begin with, or folk ballads, or old music hall songs. But once he'd ended up with with a spectacular blues album, deep and rich and soulful, and they'd played it three times in a row without saying a word. James looked it up online later and discovered it was worth about five hundred pounds, but when he mentioned that to Jeremy he just shook his head and told James to keep it for him, which made James go all fluttery inside.

Somewhere along the way they went from 'it seems like we both want to be friends, oh god' to actually friends. James kept discovering new things about him – Jeremy's cheekbones were a work of fucking art, for one. But he also discovered that Jeremy loved dogs, the smaller and yappier the better; that there was a little Yorkshire accent which slipped into his voice when he was tired; that he always wore his coat with the collar turned up and claimed it was because he got cold, but there was something shifty in the way he said it which probably meant he just thought it looked dramatic. Which it did.

One Saturday James took them to a car boot sale instead of a shop; on that trip he lost Jeremy almost immediately, disappearing into the vast trove of _stuff_ to examine, books and artwork and old telephones and naff statuettes of clowns and more orange scarves than James had ever thought to see in his lifetime. Eventually even he got tired of going through crates and texted Jeremy with 'Cry mercy, I need a pint and some chips and to not see anything paisley for at least twenty four hours.'

'I think I can oblige,' Jeremy texted back. 'Where are you?'

They met up again at the southwest corner of the lot. James was, despite his protestations about being tired of things, peering at one last stall full of junk, and so it took him a moment, hearing Jeremy's footsteps, to look up. Jeremy had his coat folded over his arm and was wearing, instead—

"What is that monstrosity?" said James.

Jeremy hitched his hip sideways. "You don't like it?" He was obviously trying to sound sardonic, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he couldn't quite hide his grin.

The jacket was a glossy blue, peacock bright, the fabric decorated with spiked leaves and smudged blossoms in white. The winding ink of his tattoo was just visible above the collar – it had a high collar, because of course it did – and though the pattern of it wasn't exactly the same as the jacket, they were similar enough to complement each other rather than clash. The blue… the blue brought out his eyes marvelously, which wasn't fair at all.

"It's all right, I suppose," James drawled. "If you want to look like you've just walked out of a role as an extra in a Jackie Chan movie."

"Oh, ta very much," said Jeremy, but he didn't look put off. "I suppose you don't want to see what I've brought for you, then."

Only then did James realize that the coat folded over Jeremy's arm wasn't only that. There was something else, too. Jeremy held it out to him.

It was a leather jacket, so dark brown as to be black except where the sunlight glanced over it. There were two flap pockets in the front, fastened with buttons, and the inside was lined with sheepskin. James had seen enough historical documentaries to recognize it as a WWII bomber jacket. He reached for it, almost involuntarily. The leather was butter soft under his hands.

"It looks authentic," he murmured. "Not a repro."

"I think it is," said Jeremy. "The man I got it from didn't know what he'd got, obviously." James wasn't looking at him, but he could hear Jeremy hesitate for a moment. "Hope it fits."

James shrugged off his own jacket and draped it over a nearby railing, then slipped the new one on. It fit well – perhaps a little short in the arms, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. "It's gorgeous," he said, looking up at last. "Thanks doesn't seem adequate."

Jeremy shrugged, but he looked pleased. "It seemed like your sort of thing. And… it smells like you."

"Does it?" said James, startled. "What on earth do I smell like?"

"An old record player. Obviously."

James couldn't decide whether to be amused by the simile or to be thrilled that Jeremy had been thinking about what he smelled like. "If you start winding me up, I'm not going to sing 'Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major,' just so you know," he said, and Jeremy burst into laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The blue jacket](http://68.media.tumblr.com/41256b0fe43023fbc991cfc503e94f97/tumblr_n777gdmwYo1qcyxxfo1_250.gif)   
>  [Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kiss_Me_Goodnight,_Sergeant_Major)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may be useful to remind you that Ken Stebbins is Richard's clumsy disaster student mentioned in chapter 3.

The following Saturday afternoon they were halfway through side B of a rather mediocre bit of sixties psychedelia when James' phone vibrated. He was curled up in the armchair, watching Jeremy who was laid out along the chaise as usual, and so he had to fumble sideways to pick it up and read the text. "Hammond says can he come over and smoke up," he said. 

It had been a while since they'd done that (the beginning of term was always busy and then Richard and Oliver had got back together, though James didn't know if it was the promise of a trip to Romania which had done it), and James didn't usually smoke on his own, so it seemed like an entertaining prospect. More entertaining than the album they were listening to, anyway.

_And Jeremy's here,_ whispered a little voice in the back of his head. _I wonder what he'll be like. Gorgeous, obviously._ That wasn't even really in question. _Maybe he'll go for shotgunning._ It was a terrible idea, not least because Richard would be there too. Still, James could picture it, could almost taste the smoke on Jeremy's lips. "Interested?" he said.

"Sure," said Jeremy, his head still lolled back.

"Tradition is he brings food," said James, starting to type. "Fish and chips all right?"

"Depends," Jeremy said, and that made James look up again. "Is it any good?" Jeremy asked. "Or is it just _artisan_?"

James lifted two fingers at him. "It's both good and _authentic_ ," he said. "Will that satisfy?"

"I suppose it'll do," Jeremy said, grinning.

James looked down to hide the fondness in his expression. 'Sure,' he texted back. 'Jeremy's here, so make it three fish and chips. Or two fish and one whatever you're having, if the wind is from the east and you aren't eating fish today.'

'Oh he is, is he?' Richard replied, ignoring the slur on his palate. 'Is he in your bed, or did you fuck on the chaise?'

'Piss off,' James sent back. 'We're not fucking. Listening to The Chocolate Watchband, that's all.'

'You'd do better to fuck him than listen to whatever the hell that is,' Richard sent. 'Is it from Willy Wonka's punk years? Anyway, I'll be there in twenty.'

When James finally put his phone down, Jeremy was looking at him with a raised eyebrow, though since his head was still mostly upside down it was a little difficult to tell.

"Hammond being a pain in the arse," James said. "Which I know will come as a shock to you. But he'll be here in a bit with food." Another thought occurred to him. "Speaking of, next week instead of the usual, would you want to do an art slash DIY fair thing? Richard's got a booth with some of his students – extra credit, you know – and it's always entertaining to see what they bring. And you can meet Oliver." 

"Ah, the mysterious Oliver," said Jeremy, eyebrows now waggling. "I'd have to go, if only for that. But yeah, same time?"

"Same time," said James. "Any earlier and we run the risk of being asked to help set up."

"Good idea," Jeremy said. "I'm allergic to physical labor."

James smirked. "Gives you hives, does it?"

"It might make me faint," Jeremy said, stretching himself even more dramatically over the chaise and raising the back of one hand to his forehead. "I could do a good swoon, don't you think so?"

James _did_ think so. Alarmingly.

\-----

Richard finally turned up with supper, wearing hideous plaid braces and a hunted expression.

"Uh oh," said James, holding open the door to let him in and taking the still-steaming bags of fish and chips out of his hand. "What is it?"

"Stebbins has a part time job," said Richard. "At the chip shop."

"Did you have to call the fire service?"

"I should have called just to warn them of the danger. That boy in charge of hot oil? I was lucky to escape with my life." He kicked off his shoes. "All right, Jeremy?"

"All right," Jeremy said, from where he was sat on the chaise, industriously rolling up a joint on the coffee table. "Shall I start writing the saga of your epic battle against the forces of destruction?"

"Oooh, yes please!" said Richard. "I can tell you all about Stebbins and all his impossibly graceless glory."

"I've been made aware of the nature of Stebbins," said Jeremy, which sounded so much more ominous than 'James told me about your little game one afternoon in a desperate attempt to make me laugh,' which is how it had actually gone down. Still. Jeremy _had_ laughed.

"Ah, but do you understand him as a character?" said Richard, affecting his best new age voice. "Can you really get insiiiiiide his miiiiiind?"

Jeremy snorted. "Can you?"

"Well. No. But I can tell you about all the stupid things he did this week!"

The tale of Ken Stebbins and His Incredibly Bad Life Choices lasted a good five minutes – long enough for James to serve everything out onto plates and drag an extra chair out onto the balcony. The space was big enough to fit him and Richard comfortably, but three people was tight, crowded around the minuscule table with just room to precariously hold three plates and the ashtray. He couldn't bring himself to mind it, not when it meant he had Jeremy practically pressed up against his right side, tall and solid and warm even through the jackets they both wore in the autumn chill.

He also had Richard pressed against his left, which was less thrilling, but it was a price he was willing to pay.

"So," Jeremy said, lighting up. "Hammond. I don't think I ever asked—"

"Mmm?" said Richard, who already had three chips stuffed in his mouth.

"You teach."

James took the lighter from Jeremy. "Allegedly," he said.

"Ha," Richard said, muffled, but then he swallowed and said, more intelligibly, "Yeah, I teach. For my sins."

"What is the actual topic of your classes? More than teaching Stebbins how to almost set himself on fire, I hope. It sounds like he didn't need that lesson twice."

James laughed, inhaled too much smoke, and set himself to frantic coughing.

"Funny," Richard said. "Hilarious." He slapped James on the back aggressively and then didn't bother to wait for him to stop coughing before he carried on. "It's pretty various, really. My advanced seminar is doing animatronics – one of them's doing some work at the Natural History Museum, one's designing a pitch for the Beeb. Interesting stuff." 

James managed to stop coughing and held out the lighter; Richard took it idly. "Sometimes it's more on theme than the actual technology or media," he said. "This term my art survey class is doing advertising, so we started with photography and then moved on to digital. They have to create posters for student theatre productions, that kind of thing. Hopefully after this I can challenge them to get more creative. You know. Build shit."

"Build _shit_ ," said James, taking a drag and then picking up a chip mainly to keep himself from staring at the way Jeremy's mouth shaped itself around the joint, the way his fingers flexed against his beard as he inhaled. James could feel himself sliding into the buzz already – probably more psychosomatic than anything, but that didn't matter much.

"Well, yes," said Richard. "Everything they do is quite terrible." He lit up and sucked in a long, slow breath, then blew it out. "The posters especially. I'm not sure anyone would go and see a play based on any of them."

"Do you?" said Jeremy. "Go and see them, I mean."

"No, no, no," Richard said, waving his hands expansively. "I don't believe in student theatre."

"What, literally?" drawled James, just to wind him up. "In an epistemological sense?"

"Ugh," said Richard. "You know that's not what I mean. I don't mean I _literally_ don't believe in it. We've had this conversation already. Years ago, in fact. Don't just whip out a word like 'epistemological' because you want to impress someone who doesn't know what it means."

"Just because _you_ didn't know—"

"I know what epistemological means," Jeremy said.

James pointed the end of his joint at Richard. "See? He knows. And anyway I don't need to whip anything out, thanks very much."

"Whatever," said Richard. "The point is, I acknowledge that student theatre is a thing that exists. But I don't _do_ student theatre." James opened his mouth to protest this phrasing as well, but Richard cut him off before he could even start. "I don't _like_ student theatre," he qualified. "I don't _attend_ student theatre."

"Why?" asked Jeremy, taking another drag and drawing James' attention to his mouth once again.

_Fuck, he's beautiful,_ James thought, losing himself momentarily in speculation about how Jeremy's beard would feel on the insides of his thighs.

"Where do I even begin?" said Richard. "Half of them don't even manage to achieve the milestone of having learned all their lines, much less delivering them with any sort of characterization. The sets are appalling and generally appear to have been put together by someone who was blind _and_ drunk. It's creepy to be one of the few people in the audience who isn't a student or genetically related to the cast."

"You just don't like Stephen," said James, forcing himself back into the conversation.

"And also I don't like Stephen," Richard allowed.

"Stephen?" said Jeremy.

"Stephen Fry," Richard said. "He's a ponce."

"He's the undergrad theatre director," said James. "I'll introduce you. Either you'll think he's hilarious or you'll loathe him on sight."

"If you have any sense, you'll hate him," said Richard. "But I don't know if you have any sense."

"They're doing The Importance of Being Earnest this term," James said, pointedly ignoring him. He nudged Jeremy with his shoulder. _Don't ask him on a date, for fuck's sake, May. What are you doing?_ He ate a bit of fish in the hopes that it would help. It didn't. "Could be a laugh." 

"Probably won't be," said Richard. 

Jeremy snorted. "Could be a laugh purely from a disaster standpoint," he suggested.

" _No_ ," said Richard.

"Richard doesn't like a disaster unless mud is involved," James said. "Or whipped cream. Or punching. Or all three."

"That was _one time_!"

Jeremy doubled over laughing, one hand braced on James' knee to keep himself from toppling sideways. "All right, come on," he wheezed. "Come on, you have to tell me that story."

\-----

The story with the mud and whipped cream and punching led to the one where Richard built a car out of tree branches ("It was _art_ , you idiots!") and then to the one where James attempted to take apart and rebuild a vintage telephone, only to discover that the schematics he'd found on the internet were woefully inadequate and he couldn't get replacement parts for the bits that were broken (he'd ended up donating everything to Richard's classes instead, and one of the students had turned it into a sculpture that purported to be a statement about obsolete technology). 

Jeremy's hand stayed on James' knee for possibly longer than was strictly necessary – or maybe it was just that James was hyper-aware of it, each long finger a pale curve against the dark denim of his jeans. Eventually he did let go, reaching to eat his supper instead; James could see Richard smirking, but thankfully he didn't decide to comment until Jeremy had gone to the bathroom.

"Oh my god, you are ridiculous," he said. Jeremy was out of earshot, but only just.

"You absolute wanker," said James, keeping his voice low. Even the buzz couldn't keep him from being alarmed at this. 

"I'm pretty sure you take the title on that," Richard said. "I don't even want to guess how much wanking you've done over him. I'm surprised you can still sit comfortably."

"Ha bloody ha," said James. "Can you blame me?" He took another drag. "God, the way he smokes gives me the shivers."

"If only you didn't have a completely ridiculous obsession with not sleeping with your friends. You could be fucking him right now," said Richard. "Well, not _right now_ , I'm eating here. But you know what I mean."

"It's still a terrible idea," said James. "It always ends in disaster."

"And yet you have a date to see student theatre," Richard pointed out. "The most terrible date idea in the universe, mind. But don't try and tell me it's not a date."

"It's not a date!" James hissed. "Rich—"

"Oh, look, Jeremy's coming back," Richard said brightly, and James glared at him, then took an angry drag of the joint just to keep himself from saying anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A deeply self-indulgent chapter and an excuse to deploy my college philosophy vocabulary with ['epistemological'](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epistemology).  
>  ~~what do you mean, college was 15 years ago, oh god~~
> 
>  
> 
> [The Chocolate Watchband](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MAAVqK9trlo)
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I promise we'll get to meet Oliver in the next chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

The art fair was chaotic to say the least. James and Jeremy stuck close to each other in the crowd, weaving among the usual sort of people: two old ladies cooing over handmade quilted purses the size of Australia, three teenagers wearing top hats decorated with goggles, a woman probably over fifty wearing yoga sweats and an amethyst-studded tiara, a man holding a hideous paisley scarf up for a woman to examine and saying, dubiously, "I think your mum might like this," two more teenagers huddling over a phone, with one of them saying to the other, "Don't spend forty quid on that, you could just make it, Jesus," two men wearing tight jeans and eyeing a display of leather – one of them gave James a look, which was flattering. 

But he didn't pause, just carried on leading Jeremy past a succession of stalls: the ubiquitous woven Christmas ornaments, found-object jewelry (one of the necklaces had an arm-less baby doll hanging from it), a display of art that appeared to be all paper mâché carrots, hats with feathers on (James mentally marked this one to come back to, since some of them looked quite good), pottery shaped like cacti, steampunk quilts (some with embroidered gears on and some with _actual_ gears on, which seemed like it would be uncomfortable). 

And then, at last, Richard's stall. Richard himself was nowhere to be seen, but Oliver was there, manning the cashbox and the card reader and supervising the two students who were mostly just hovering over potential buyers. 

"All right, Ols?" said James.

Oliver looked up and a broad smile stretched rapidly across his face. "Cheers, James, I'm all right. You?"

"Can't complain," said James, who usually reserved his right to complain loudly and at length; but somehow doing it in front of Oliver always felt a bit like kicking a puppy. Even when it wasn't him you were complaining about. "I wanted to introduce you to Jeremy," he said. "He's the writer in residence this year."

"Oh, yes," said Oliver, holding out a hand for Jeremy to shake. "I've heard _so_ much about you. It's brilliant to meet you at last."

"Pleasure," Jeremy said.

They looked decidedly odd standing together as they shook hands – Oliver was an inch or two shorter than Richard, and skinnier, and so Jeremy towered over him. Jeremy was all in black including the coat with the turned up collar, though it was unbuttoned in front in some small concession to the heat of so many bodies, while Oliver was, as usual, wearing oil-spattered jeans and a flannel shirt, bulging in the arms because no shirt ever invented could contain his massive biceps. 

The two of them were silent for just a moment too long and James realized they were both sizing each other up, which was hilarious. Oliver looked pleasantly interested, warm – a bit vague, but he usually looked like that; James knew him well enough to understand that it didn't mean he was an idiot. Jeremy had one eyebrow raised in an expression that wasn't quite sardonic.

James turned away to hide his amusement and busied himself with examining what was for sale. He always wondered what people made of it, seeing a stall with three or four very different types of work. The end corner was jewelry, made of something like rubber, all in intricate strands circling around each other in mathematical patterns, one large circle hung as a single pendant and others in miniature, forming links in a bracelet chain. James poked one with a fingertip and found it was springy. Clever work. Appealing. "Nice," he said, directing the compliment at the girl who was obviously trying not to wait eagerly for his assessment. 

She beamed. "Thanks! It's 3d printed."

Oliver and Jeremy appeared to have decided that they didn't hate each other, because Oliver ended the silence with a bright, "I see you've managed to make it this far without buying an elephant print shawl. I commend you."

Jeremy snorted. 

"Don't be a cow, love," said Richard; James turned and discovered him just arriving, shrugging off his bag. "Not everyone has your eye. And at least people are creating something." He sounded unexpectedly sincere and he obviously realized it, because he went a little red and leaned down to shove the bag under the table.

Out of the corner of his eye, James could see the soft expression that passed over Oliver's face. It was reassuring, in a way – he didn't _dislike_ Oliver, but the man was so uniformly cheery that it was easy to forget that he actually loved Richard rather than just mildly enjoying domesticity and regular sex. James hadn't realized how worried he'd been about that until now. 

Christ, it was exhausting worrying about other people's romantic entanglements. James vowed to stop immediately.

"That better not mean you're going to buy fifty seven of them," said Oliver.

"I promise," Richard said, straightening up. He was grinning. "I'll only buy fifty three."

Oliver swatted him on the shoulder, but since he was still smiling, the effect was somewhat spoiled. Then he spoiled it entirely by dragging Richard into a deep, thorough, and nearly pornographic kiss, biceps flexing as he held him close. 

One of the students – not the girl with the jewelry, the other one, a runty looking boy – boggled at the sight. James, who had seen this sort of thing before, turned his head just far enough that he could watch Jeremy out of the corner of his eye. Jeremy looked momentarily startled and then amused as hell – and then even more amused as the kiss lasted well beyond the thirty second mark.

Eventually James decided he'd better take pity on the students. "Charming as this is," he said loudly. 

Richard and Oliver broke apart at last. Oliver gave James a slightly smug look; Richard rolled his eyes. "Leave off," he said. "You're frightening the children." The runty boy looked indignant at this, while the girl with the jewelry just smirked.

"Oh, all right," said Oliver. "Besides, James came to offer some generous assistance. To man the store while we go and—" There was a fractional pause. "—have a coffee."

James hadn't intended any such thing, but given Richard's pleading glance and the fact that that he was pretty sure 'have a coffee' actually meant 'have a quickie in the loo,' he decided he might as well agree. "Yes, we'd be happy to, wouldn't we, Jeremy?"

"Of course," Jeremy said faintly. "Our pleasure."

\-----

They ended up stuck minding the table for more than half an hour. At one point, during a lull, Jeremy leaned over and murmured, "They do live together, right? This isn't a 'we only see each other when the phases of the moon align' sort of thing?"

"They absolutely live together," said James. "But the fact that they probably shagged four hours ago is no impediment." He sighed. "Right. Shall we play a few rounds of person and purchase? I pick a person and then you have to tell me what you think they'll buy. Then swap."

Jeremy laughed. "Yeah, all right. Go."

James cast his gaze across the room, then settled on an older woman, hair gone silver but for a streak of bright dyed teal down the center. "Two o'clock, silver and blue hair."

"Hmmm," said Jeremy. "Tote bag with a fairy on it. But a punk fairy."

"Oh yes, spot on, I should think," said James. "Your turn."

Jeremy scanned the room. "Twelve thirty, teenage boy with leather trousers."

James looked, found him, and considered. "Five pound wicker Christmas ornament."

" _What?_ "

"Present for a grandmother," said James. "Because he spent all his money on those trousers, so that's about all he can afford, and he's unimaginative."

Jeremy made a rude noise at this logic and they settled into a nice, enjoyable argument.

\-----

The game progressed through a few more rounds in between selling things out of the stall. The jewelry went fastest, which surprised James not at all. The other student's work was all paintings, broad brushstrokes and thick oil paint, depicting mostly naked women with the occasional detour into Warhol-stype pop art. Not to James' taste, but it did a decent business among the male university student set, so perhaps the boy merely knew his audience. 

Richard's own work sold to the older, more affluent crowd; it was all miniature sculptures in a mix of natural materials and engine parts, sometimes into recognizable shapes – animals, trees, gears, single letters – and other times in abstract mandalas. He also offered custom work, which mainly ended up being people's names or words ("laugh" was popular, but so was "fuck off"), and James handed out a slew of business cards for people interested in that. 

When Oliver and Richard returned, James and Jeremy were finally able to make their escape. They drifted through the rest of the fair picking up a few things along the way. James did indeed acquire a hat, a dark blue wool trilby – one without a feather, in the end, because it looked just slightly too femme for his taste – and Jeremy ended up with four silver bracelets all in different patterns. He put them on immediately; James kept catching glimpses of them under the cuff of the coat, and every time he had to stamp down a surge of arousal at the thought of pressing his fingertips or his mouth to the inside of Jeremy's wrist.

When they stepped outside at last, it was a relief to feel the cold wind on his face. "So what did you think of Oliver?" James said, mainly to distract Jeremy from how flushed he was.

"I can't get a read on him," Jeremy said. "Perfectly pleasant bloke. Tiny edge of bitchiness. I like him, I suppose."

"Yes, he's very likeable. Must be a demon in bed, too, given how many pretty twinks Richard's abandoned whenever the two of them get back together. But otherwise he's a bit of an enigma. His interior life is… very interior."

"How'd they meet? I never got 'round to asking."

"In Africa," James said. "Richard was there doing some sort of foreign aid thing, building water facilities, I think. Oliver was teaching English, which is somehow difficult to imagine."

Jeremy snorted.

"They hooked up, thinking it was a short time thing," James continued. "Then after they left to come home, they realized they couldn't live without each other. Oliver was working elsewhere at the time… Bristol, maybe? It took him a while to swing a job here – I don't know the details. That was all long before Richard and I met. But it was very… star-crossed, from what I can tell."

"Romantic," Jeremy said. 

James hummed. "Yeah." He wasn't entirely sure about romance, himself, but it was pleasing to think of it happening for Richard. "By the way," he said. "Opening night for The Importance of Being Earnest is on Wednesday. Still on?"

"Will it be dreadful?" said Jeremy, but he was grinning. "You promised me dreadful."

"I really don't have any worry about delivering on that."

"Then we're still on."


	9. Chapter 9

The play, James reflected, was quite possibly setting an all time new standard for terribleness. They had sat in the back row, in the hopes of not being too obviously not-students, but James was extra grateful for the lack of anyone behind them, because it meant no one was in a position to notice when his hands clenched on his knees or when he twitched all over at a particularly severe mangling of a line. He could hear Jeremy periodically shifting beside him, too, and at one point towards the end he looked over and they shared a despairing glance just as the girl playing Lady Bracknell – in a hat that quite probably weighed as much as she did – said tentatively, "a— erm. A handbag?"

When the torture was finally over they stayed seated to let the rest of the audience disperse in whorls and eddies of laughing bodies. The actors appeared only a little later, joining their friends and family to be congratulated with varying levels of sincerity. James didn't particularly want to linger, but having promised to introduce Jeremy and Stephen, he felt honor-bound to do so, and so they got up at last and went down to hover at the edge of the stage. They were in good time – Stephen appeared only a moment later, clad in full Oscar Wilde splendor, floppy bow tie and green carnation and all.

He caught sight of James immediately and said, "Darling!"

"Dear god," said Jeremy, under his breath, but James didn't have a chance to laugh before Stephen was there, slinging an arm over his shoulders, holding back just enough to keep the carnation from being crushed between them.

"I haven't seen you in positively ages, my dear boy!" Stephen announced. "What _have_ you been doing with yourself?"

_Wanking,_ James thought. "Oh," he said. "Teaching."

Stephen huffed dismissively. "Teaching. That's no excuse for neglecting me." He was already turning his eye on Jeremy, though, sliding his arm off James' shoulder. "And who's this, mmm?"

"This is Jeremy. He's the writer in residence this year. Jeremy, this is Stephen, the most shameless flirt I've had the pleasure to meet."

"You do flatter me," Stephen murmured to James, and then, to Jeremy, "How utterly delightful to meet you." James was momentarily amused to see Stephen turn his dramatics on Jeremy, but the feeling slipped away rapidly as he began to eye Jeremy like a prime cut of meat. 

"Charmed," said Jeremy, offering his hand, but he sounded more amused than actually charmed, which made James' stomach unclench a little. 

_Oh, god, stop it,_ he told himself firmly.

Stephen seemed to notice that he wasn't going to get anywhere and flicked a sly sideways glance at James – a glance which he studiously ignored. "What did you make of the performance?" Stephen asked.

Jeremy hesitated, obviously waffling between politeness and honesty. 

"Up to your usual standard," said James.

Stephen laughed. "Wasn't it just?" he said. "Still, they enjoyed themselves, the dears. They love swanning about, and it's a wonderful play for it."

"I wonder where they get it from," James said dryly.

"A mystery," said Stephen, waving a hand as if shooing away the idea like a fly. "Will you come and see the spring production? Hugh set me an interesting challenge this year. I have to do something with a severed leg."

Jeremy looked alarmed at this, and James hastened to clarify. "Hugh's the graduate theatre director," he said. "Hence the prop challenge."

"Ah," said Jeremy. "And why a severed leg?"

"He found it in a secondhand shop somewhere – Christ knows where," Stephen said. "It's blue. It goes up above the knee. It's wearing a fishnet stocking. I think it might have been the base of a lamp, at one time."

James was momentarily speechless at this description.

"You could do Rocky Horror," said Jeremy. "It'd be a great set piece. Leave it open whether it's intended to be a real leg or not."

"Not in the spirit of the challenge," Stephen said. "It's got to be entirely out of place. And I'm forbidden from doing Rocky Horror as well," he added glumly.

"You did it so well, that first time," James said, trying to be encouraging – although he knew Stephen needed very little in the way of encouraging.

"Too well, I'm told. But I still maintain that if that woman couldn't see her son was already as camp as a row of tents, she had considerably larger problems to be getting on with."

Jeremy cackled at this. "I'm sure that conversation must have gone well. Did she get over it eventually?"

"I think she did. A few years later he married a nice young man from Basingstoke. They invited me to the wedding, in fact, but I judged it more politic not to attend. I sent them a throw pillow that said 'Mr & Mr,' if I recall."

"I'm sure they were delighted," said James.

"I signed the card 'From Stephen Fry and Frank N. Furter' as well."

Someone caught Stephen's eye while they were still laughing at this, and he perked up. "Gentlemen," he said, "It's been lovely, but I must dash. My after-supper sweet has arrived." He shook Jeremy's hand again, patted James on the cheek gently and gave him a look that spoke volumes, and at last swept away in his usual grandiose manner.

James turned to watch him go and discovered, to absolutely no surprise at all, a twenty-something curly-haired moppet waiting at the door, watching Stephen approach with a somewhat adoring look on his face.

"Well," said Jeremy. "I see what Hammond meant. But he's definitely a laugh."

"Yes, isn't he?"

"I do have one question, though."

James blinked. "All right."

"Is there anyone in this university who isn't a tremendous queer cliché?" 

James laughed. He looked Jeremy over purposefully, down and then up. "Nope." Jeremy flushed, then threw back his head and laughed long and hard. 

"Yes, all right, fine," he said.

"I suppose there's Wilman, if you're really looking for someone."

"Oh, _Wilman_ ," Jeremy said, shaking his head. "Anyway, d'you want a drink? After that, I think I need one."

"Yes," James agreed. "Absolutely."

\-----

They retired to the Hart and Hound and settled into a booth in the back corner. James attempted not to watch as Jeremy went to the bar to buy the first round – and failed almost immediately. There was something intensely eye-catching about him: not his height, not his solidity, not even the dramatic white topping of curls. It was something else, a presence that defied definition. Something luminous.

_For fuck's sake,_ James told himself. _You are being utterly ridiculous._ He thought he'd outgrown poetry long ago, or at least the kind of poetry that was actually poetic. A ridiculous haiku on the joy of cheese now and then was one thing. Or a limerick about Nietzsche. Not actual rhapsodizing.

Thankfully, Jeremy returned before James could berate himself any further. "So," he said. "You said that one was up to the usual standard."

"Up to and beyond, perhaps," said James. "Usually Stephen can at least find an entire cast of divas. Which makes for a different sort of disaster, since they're all determined to upstage one another. One year he did Twelfth Night and I was genuinely afraid that Viola and Sebastian were going to bludgeon each other on stage. Not to mention the Fool. I don't think 'Better a witty fool than a foolish wit' has ever been said quite so venomously."

Jeremy laughed. "At least it wasn't Hamlet, where they were more likely to have weapons." He took a sip of his drink – only then did James realize that what Jeremy had bought for himself wasn't beer but a glass of rosé. He found his mouth turning up into an involuntary smile.

"What?" Jeremy said, belligerently. 

James coughed. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."

"Don't be a twat," said Jeremy, but he was smiling. "It tastes good."

_I bet you'd taste incredible,_ James thought, and then hurriedly said, "Have you ever considered writing a play?" just to distract himself.

"Thought about it," Jeremy said. "Never quite got there. It would be an interesting challenge." James deliberately hadn't read much of Jeremy's work, at first out of fear that he'd think it was crap, and then later because it seemed like cheating to get to know him through that medium when Jeremy couldn't do the same in return. But he knew that it was non-fiction, humorous – this was Jeremy, how could it not be? – and that it was usually too scatological to feature in The New Yorker. "I've done a couple of fiction pieces," Jeremy continued, "but nothing that's seen the light of day. A play seems… ambitious."

"What would it be about, if you did write one?"

Jeremy scrubbed a hand over his beard and was silent for a long moment. "Yorkshire," he said at last, not looking at James but down at his other hand tracing a slow circle around the base of the wineglass. "Traveling. I did some, when I was fresh out of school and too stubborn to try university. Meeting people – you'd be amazed at what people will tell you when they know you're only passing through, when you're a country boy like them, when you're young and stupid. I suppose there's no shortage of theatre about people being young and stupid and living in the country, but I think I could do something with it. Compare it to being old and stupid and living in London, maybe. People tell you equally amazing things when they think you're too old as they do when you're too young, as long as they're sure you'll get lost in the city and they'll never have to see you again."

James found that there was something hard and tight in his throat, that he couldn't speak – could barely even breathe. 

"Or spies," Jeremy said, looking up.

James blinked. "Pardon?"

"I could do spies. Explosions. Poison darts hidden in a wristwatch. Or a spy farce! Four different spies from different agencies hiding in wardrobes and behind potted plants and on hotel room balconies! One of them tries to disguise himself as a hotel maid but only gets as far as stripping down to his shorts when one of the others bursts in, and then they have to do ninja fighting with a mop and bucket."

James burst out laughing. "The other one _already_ dressed as a hotel maid and fending off the mop with a silver platter full of champagne glasses!" he said, and very carefully stuffed everything else into the back of his mind for further consideration later. Or preferably never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Stephen Fry in this chapter was just a fucking delight for me. 
> 
> I promise there will be actual movement on the plot (such as it is) in the next chapter!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating goes up in this chapter! Double length, since the vote on twitter was to not be evil about where I ended it. :D

They left the pub after the drink, still tossing around the idea for a spy farce although the plot had grown in the telling to encompass five spies, two actual hotel staff, and one enemy target who turned out to be a man vacationing from Iceland who had nothing to do with the secret documents at all. When they parted at the end of the street, James was still laughing.

The moment stayed with him, though, despite all his attempts to forget it. That moment of quiet honesty had been – there was no other word for it – intimate. Something small and private and precious, a gift he knew he wasn't even remotely worthy of receiving. 

The only other person who told him personal things was Richard, and they'd known each other for fifteen years – and fully the first three of those had just been interacting purely on the basis of sarcasm and moaning about students. It was a friendship that James considered the most solid thing in his life, but it had become one only with time.

With Jeremy, it had been something else. Exactly what that was, James wasn't quite sure. Sure, they were becoming friends, they _were_ friends, but it wasn't just that. 

Whatever it was, he both did and didn't want more of it. Did, because of course he did.

And didn't, because getting emotionally attached to anyone was a mug's game, especially someone who was going to leave in only eight months. James was old enough to know better – he'd tried having a proper relationship, and every time the whole thing had crashed and burned. Somewhere along the way he'd come to the sobering realization that it wasn't worth trying. Some people had the knack of romance and he didn't, that was just the way things were.

It was all still tumbling around in his head when the week ended and he found himself with a depressingly large stack of essays. He begged off crate-digging on Saturday in favor of reading them – half truth and half, if he admitted it, avoidance. But by Monday he was bleary-eyed, had forty still to go, and was filled with hatred for the universe, an attitude which certainly wasn't improved by having to lecture that day as well. When the last class was over, he closed himself in his office and gave in and texted Jeremy. 

'Please god and all that is holy, say you'll come over and eat curry and make the reading of essays marginally less tortuous.'

The reply came back almost instantly. 'Fuck yes. I've got five billion terrible short stories to go through, I need bhajis and strong drink.'

Four hours later found them in a pleasant post-curry haze, settled in front of the french doors to James' balcony with a red pen and a glass of scotch each. Neither of them wanted to be without the opportunity to smoke – hence by the doors instead of a more sensible location – but it was cold enough to freeze anyone's balls off and so they'd compromised between the two desires by pulling the chaise up as a slightly warmer seating surface and opening the doors only halfway. Each of them had a book as a writing surface and James had a blanket, because when it came to temperature he'd lost all sense of dignity years ago; Jeremy had his ever-present black coat, collar turned up in the way that James had come to love and hate in equal measure. The sky had sunk into the thick navy blue of approaching night and the light from the lamp behind James' head illuminated his essay papers in a soft, golden halo.

A halo that was, in the end, not golden enough to make the words on them any less shit.

"Wait, wait, you'll like this one," James said. Jeremy looked up. "'Socrates was a notable pre-Socratic philosopher,'" James read.

"I…" Jeremy said. "I suppose? He wasn't _post_ -Socratic, anyway."

James gave him an exaggerated no-bullshit-please look. "No, no, no, I'm not letting that one pass. Not unless it was trying to make a complex point about what Socrates actually said versus what the philosophical establishment has decided he said. But this is just padding." He wielded his red pen with gusto.

"That's from your intro group, isn't it?"

"Yes, but they'd best learn early not to waste my time. Should have learned it already."

Jeremy grinned, and they both went back to their reading. A few minutes later, Jeremy cleared his throat. "This is a good one. Ready?"

"Ready."

"'Mike was playing our big, black grand piano beautifully, like a horse.'"

"Like a _horse_?" James said. "What does that _mean_?"

"Absolutely no idea," Jeremy said cheerfully. He had, in a fit of what James can only think of as masochism, divided his students in thirds and set each group to a different basic theme – description, plot, and character. So far he'd been reading out bits from the description group, which were marvelously terrible. "But I'm looking forward to hearing more about its musical talents. Maybe it plays _A Horse With No Name_."

James groaned and pointedly turned back to his current essay.

Over the next half hour he read another handful of essays and discovered another handful of appalling gems, such as 'Violence can only be justified in sports, and terrorism isn't a sport,' and 'In what is often called the "Wilt Chamberlain Example," philosopher Robert Nozick describes a situation using Wilt Chamberlain as an example,' and, his personal favorite, 'The four schools of ethics are relativism, universalism, utilitarianism, and plagiarism.'

Jeremy, in turn, shared the delights of 'The sun rays shot through my flesh as if I was an overcooked Nando's,' and 'No one knows who the Louis Armstrong of Mars will be,' and 'He was just sitting there, that Catholic piece of Catholic,' which didn't even begin to make sense even in context. 

It was a bloody enjoyable way to read papers, but also desperately inefficient, in part because they both kept stopping to read out particularly terrible bits of text but also because, even between pauses, James spent considerably more time watching Jeremy than reading. From this angle, even in the soft light, he could see the pale hairs on the back of Jeremy's hand where he held the book steady, could see the curved, precise shape of his ear. Every so often he would reach for his glass on the floor between them and bring it to his mouth for a sip, lips caressing the rim like a gentleman kissing a lady's hand.

_Christ,_ James thought, a little helplessly. _I really am gagging for it, given that I appear to be coming over all nineteenth century here._

He'd kept thinking it would ease off, the heat of his attraction to Jeremy. That it couldn't possibly sustain itself for more than a few weeks (and then more than a month, and then to however long it was now). If it had eased off, he thought he could have been perfectly happy with Jeremy as a friend, perhaps as good a friend as Richard had come to be.

But that thick, shivering desire had lasted; actually, it was intensifying. It had become impossible not to think about him – his big, warm hands, his lush mouth, the long stretch of his legs. The way he walked. The way he _smiled_ , which was so gorgeous it ought to have been made illegal. 

_I could just say something,_ James thought. _Maybe he isn't even interested._ This was unlikely, he had to admit. There had been plenty of signs that Jeremy was indeed interested. James didn't know why he hadn't made a move already. Probably for the same reasons _he_ hadn't.

_Maybe the sex will be awful and we can laugh and then go back to being mates._ He knew he was talking himself into it, but it was difficult to care. He was so tired of fighting himself. So tired of wanking. So tired of wanting Jeremy's mouth on him and not getting it.

It didn't have to be some grand romance. They could be friends who fucked – people did that all the time and it seemed to come out basically fine. Sure, it hadn't worked for James in the past, but fifth time was the charm, wasn't it? He'd have to keep a little bit of himself in reserve, a little distance, but he could do that. He'd been doing it for years, even with Richard. It was second nature by now.

And whatever happened, at least he'd know – know whether the sex was good, know whether they could still be friends after. Even if it fucked everything up, at least he'd be able to stop all this ridiculous hemming and hawing. 

He looked over again; after a moment Jeremy looked up at him, eyebrow raised. There was nothing particularly sexual about the gaze, but somehow James could tell there was interest in it nonetheless. He considered how he wanted to make his pitch, then decided he was too old to be coy. "This is tedious. I've a better idea. Want to fuck?"

A succession of emotions crossed Jeremy's face, too quickly to identify, and then he smiled, a low, dirty smile, and said, "Yeah, let's do that."

There was nothing graceful about their scramble off the chaise – its feet scraped across the floor as James pushed it backwards and it made a screeching sound that he would have been horrified by, under any other circumstances. He made a feeble attempt at organizing his sheaf of papers and then gave it up as a bad job and stuffed the whole pile under a cushion. Jeremy laughed at him, eyes bright, but since he was hastily moving the half-full glasses of scotch onto a side table, James rather felt that he had no room to talk on the issue of suaveness. 

"Shut up," he said, grinning, and then when Jeremy carried on laughing, he backed him against the wall, grabbed both his lapels, and kissed him. 

Jeremy's mouth opened against his immediately, a heated press of beard and skin and tongue. His hands went to James' waist, pulling him in hard. James groaned, couldn't help himself, but Jeremy was groaning too. He was every bit as gorgeous to kiss as he was to look at – teasing, hot, not afraid to play dirty by scraping his teeth over James' bottom lip or rubbing his bearded cheek against James' in a delicious rasp of sensation. James retaliated by dragging his tongue over Jeremy's with tantalizing slowness, keeping his own pace until Jeremy laughed again and shoved his hands up under James' shirt, tugging him closer.

For all of James' impatience to get here, he found that he wasn't in a hurry to move on. It was _so good_ to nuzzle the corner of Jeremy's mouth and share a heavy-lidded glance, so good to feel Jeremy's hands spread over the small of his back, big and warm in contrast to the cold air still wafting in through the open french doors. James kept shivering, kept running his thumbs over Jeremy's throat just to feel rough stubble, just to feel him swallow as they kissed. 

"What do you want?" Jeremy said at last. His hips were moving in little restless circles, as if he couldn't help himself – the thought made James ache.

"For starters," he said, kissing Jeremy again, "you can take off this _ridiculous_ coat."

Jeremy let out his gurgling laugh. "Yeah, all right." He arched his back, shrugging it off his shoulders, and James leaned back just enough to let it fall to the floor. Without it, Jeremy's bulk was even more apparent, the broad stretch of his chest and his long legs, one already pressing between James' thighs. 

"God, yes," said James. He ran his palms down over Jeremy's chest, the soft wool of his jumper. He teased a nipple with his fingertips until Jeremy groaned and ground his hips forward. 

"Fuck, that's good. Your hands make me— Jesus."

"Yeah?"

" _Yeah._ "

Suddenly James wanted him naked, wanted skin on skin. "C'mon," he said, tugging on the jumper to draw Jeremy back with him. 

The one benefit of his minuscule flat was that one could get to the bed in under ten seconds from anywhere in it. He had a brief moment of panic about what Jeremy would think of the bedroom, but Jeremy didn't seem inclined to do anything but kiss and push him down onto the duvet, and the thought fled almost before he'd finished having it.

They undressed each other between kisses; Jeremy's soft jumper went first and then James' slightly less plush one, then shirts and trousers and pants all in a flurry. Jeremy was hairy all over, pale but for the thin lines of ink that spiderwebbed up the side of his neck. James hadn't asked about it – because he knew all too well what it was like to have people asking about the meaning of a tattoo as if it was just a pretty decoration. But seeing Jeremy naked made him want to taste it, get his mouth there as if he could suck some essence of him just from the skin. 

He looked up again and discovered that Jeremy had been giving him the once-over too, was watching him with a gratifyingly avid look on his face. "I knew you'd have a gorgeous cock," Jeremy murmured. 

James felt himself flush, as much from the knowledge that Jeremy had been thinking about him as from the compliment itself. He leaned back, putting one foot flat on the bed and parting his legs just to give Jeremy a really good view. "Yeah?" 

"Christ," Jeremy said, low and fervent. His hands went to James' knees and then his thighs, in and in until he could skim his thumbs up the underside of James' cock. James shuddered. He was achingly hard already, turned on more than he'd been in ages. He tugged ineffectually at Jeremy's shoulder.

"Come here," he said hoarsely. 

Jeremy scrambled up and then they were kissing urgently again, his weight pressing James down against the bed and his skin hot everywhere they touched. For a while they just ground against each other, gasping, moving first in sync and then separately and then in sync again; every time the rhythm changed it made James shiver all over. Then Jeremy worked a hand between them and curled his hand around James' cock – his palm was warm and strong and the calluses of his fingers felt exquisite. "Good?" he said.

James lifted a hand to Jeremy's mop of curls, pulled him down so that his face was pressed to James' neck. Jeremy moaned and kissed his skin, bit at him, sucked hard enough that James knew it would leave a mark. "Yeah," James said, fumbling between them until he could get Jeremy's cock in his hand in turn and give it a good solid stroke. "Yeah, yes, god, that's good."

Jeremy's cock was heavy, silk-hot and dripping precome. James tried to match his pace but he couldn't quite manage it, couldn't focus, couldn't do anything but moan and rut himself into Jeremy's hand. 

"What do you want?" Jeremy asked; his voice was a low rumble. "You want it like this, want me to get you off?"

"Fuck me," James said, breathlessly. "I— that all right?"

Jeremy groaned. "Jesus. Yeah, let me just—" He let go of James' cock and then seemed to realize that he had no idea where to find what he was looking for. James laughed and pushed him sideways so that he could lean over and reach the bedside table. There were condoms in the drawer – he tugged one out hurriedly and flipped it at Jeremy, who caught it with only a little bit of a scramble.

The slim glass bottle of lube was on the bedside table already and James slicked up his fingers, pressed two of them into himself while Jeremy was still fumbling with the condom. "Oi!" Jeremy said. "I'll do that, thanks very much."

James laughed again. "Greedy," he said.

"Too fucking right," said Jeremy. He got the condom on at last and so James handed him the lube and let him take over, slumping down onto the sheets and arching his back into the touch as Jeremy's hand slid down between his legs. 

Jeremy propped himself up on one elbow and seemed happy to take his time here, teasing the rim of James' hole with his fingertips, tracing maddening circles in the sensitive skin, pausing sometimes to press a little deeper only to pull back again as soon as James started rocking into the touch. It was overwhelming – but every time James thought about closing his eyes, he found that he couldn't bear to stop watching Jeremy even for a moment. There were red marks all down his neck from where James had been running his fingernails over it, his hair had gone from artfully-tousled into chaos, and his lips were parted in an expression of intense concentration. James wanted to preserve the memory of that look and keep it with him until the end of his days.

Slowly, _slowly_ , Jeremy fingered him open, so thorough and so achingly good that James was shaking from it, breath gasping in his throat. Finally he could take no more and so he curled his hand around Jeremy's wrist, tight, held him still for a long moment just so that he could breathe. 

"You want it now?" Jeremy asked. His eyes were heavy-lidded with desire but there was a smug smile turning up the corners of his mouth. 

"Yeah." James let go and Jeremy's fingers slid out of him – the feeling of it pulled a groan from somewhere deep in his chest. 

"How d'you want me?"

It was a question with too many answers – but James tugged at Jeremy's shoulder, pulled him down so that Jeremy's full weight was on him again. Jeremy slicked himself with more lube, fumbling the bottle back onto the bedside table, and then he was lining up and pushing in, long and slow and deep. They rocked together experimentally, finding the angle, and then suddenly something clicked and they were fucking properly, sharp and hard and urgent. James cupped Jeremy's face in his hands and drew him into a ragged kiss, feeling the burn as he got more beard against his mouth than anything else, a rough contrast to Jeremy's sweat-slick palm where it was clenched onto his hip. 

It was good, it was _incredible_ , better than any sex he'd had in years just from the way their bodies fit together so easily, the heat of Jeremy everywhere they touched, the way his cock filled James up and sent a rasp of pleasure through him with every thrust. He was muzzy-headed on the feeling of it, like he'd drunk half a bottle of scotch instead of the bare three quarters of a glass he'd actually had. His own cock was hard and smearing precome where it pushed against Jeremy's stomach, and though he ached, he didn't want to come yet, didn't want to lose the thick, heady shiver of arousal.

"James—"

"Jeremy."

Above him, Jeremy's eyes fluttered shut and then open again, locked on James' face as they found each other's mouths at last and kissed properly once more. James' hair was mashed sweatily down the side of his face; above him, Jeremy's was sticking every which way. James reached up to tug at it again, bringing Jeremy's face back down to his neck. Jeremy licked him, found the spot he'd bitten before and sucked at it. "Ah," James said, "ah, fuck, Jeremy. Christ, that's nice."

Jeremy chuckled, the sound low and sweet. "Yeah?"

"I think," James managed, hearing his own words only at a distance, "that should be obvious." He punctuated the comment with a particularly sharp roll of his hips upwards; Jeremy choked out a gasp. "What d'you need?" James asked, with difficulty. "You want—"

"This is good," said Jeremy, the words coming out on a moan. "No complaints."

James laughed, and then for long moments, minutes, the only sounds were sweat-slick bodies moving together, were breaths, were half-voiced moans. His heart was racing like mad now and he was getting close, he could feel it, each thrust dragging him just a fraction further onwards. "I'm going to— Fuck."

"Yeah," Jeremy gasped. "Yeah, me too. Can I just—" He worked his hand between them, curled it around James' cock and began jerking him quick and tight. The sensation was almost too much, in concert with everything else, and after that, it didn't take long; James came over Jeremy's fist with a long, shuddering groan, holding Jeremy's mouth to his throat with suddenly clenched fingers. It was intense – he went foggy all over, sweating, stars scattering behind his eyes.

When he could fumble back to himself a little he found that Jeremy had slowed in his movements. James hitched a foot up to nudge at his arse – not gracefully, but it got the job done. "C'mon."

Jeremy groaned and sped up again, hips snapping forward sharply in a way that would probably have got James off in a split second, if he'd been hard again already. "You're so—"

"Mmm?"

"Gorgeous," Jeremy panted. He kissed his way back up James' chin to his mouth. "Incredible."

James flushed, then got his other foot up for leverage and rocked himself up into Jeremy's thrusts. "Come for me, then," he said. "Give it to me, I want it—" and Jeremy came on a moan, his mouth gone slack against James'. 

They slumped together without speaking for a while. James knew they ought to pull apart, if only for the sake of how his arse was going to feel in the morning, but he didn't know what would happen when they did. Didn't know what he _wanted_ to happen. Didn't know if he had the brain cells to make sense of any of it, not after an orgasm that good.

At last practicality overcame everything else and he gave Jeremy a gentle push to roll him sideways. They separated with the sort of inelegant noise that always came in these moments. Jeremy reached down to remove the condom, shivering a little. James got up and went into the bathroom, wetted a cloth to wipe himself down, then rinsed it out and carried it with him back into the bedroom. 

Jeremy was sitting up on his elbows but his face was soft, eyes drooping in exhaustion. James wasn't much better, but he crawled back onto the bed and between the two of them they managed an acceptable level of cleanliness. James took the cloth back to the bathroom, then detoured on his return to close the french doors which were still hanging open.

This time when he came back, Jeremy was sitting on the edge of the bed in the probably-universal position of 'so do you want me to leave, or…?'

"Left side or right?" said James.

Jeremy yawned, which only half-hid his smile. "Left."

James clicked off the light and they settled into the bed, Jeremy flopping his head onto the pillow with a sigh. James hesitated a moment, then rolled in so that he could press his forehead to Jeremy's shoulder. A moment later he heard a faint snore, and smiled despite himself.

\-----

He woke in the middle of the night, a little sweaty. Jeremy was curled all up against his side, a huge, soft mass. James looked at the shape of him in the dark, then kicked one of his feet out from under the duvet to cool himself down, closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't think we're done here. No, no, no, we're just getting started. 
> 
> [A Horse With No Name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQzW6wz2JQk)
> 
> My terrible writing examples are all from the [Shit My Students Write tumblr](http://shitmystudentswrite.tumblr.com/) \- if you're not following this, you are missing out.


	11. Chapter 11

Richard took one look at him the following morning and made a pained noise.

" _May_ ," he said.

"Shut up," said James, though there was no heat to it. He set both his coffees down on the table and slumped carefully into the chair. "Am I completely obvious?"

"Even if I didn't know you well enough to tell when you're shagged out, that turtleneck is not remotely high enough to hide that bite."

James tugged at his collar ineffectually, then sighed and gave up. "My morning group spent the whole lecture staring at it. I almost set them another essay except that I still haven't finished reading the last ones."

"Just because you're miserable is no reason to inflict it on the students," Richard said, and then, "What am I saying? It's an incredibly good reason."

James snorted. 

"Did he run off, then?" Richard asked. 

"No. He was still there. Asleep. Fuckable as ever." He picked up his first double espresso and drained the whole thing in two swallows.

"You're in love with him as much as ever, you mean."

"I'm not in love with him," James said sharply. "But I thought fucking him might at least lessen my… fixation."

"Fixation. Right."

"But it hasn't," James said. "It really, really hasn't."

"It might lessen from his end, if you just left him there."

"Don't be an idiot, Hammond," said James. "I left him a note saying I had a lecture. And I left some coffee."

"From you that's practically a marriage proposal."

" _Hammond._ " Some of James' impatience must have made itself apparent, because Richard dropped his drawl at last.

"Look, do you want my advice?" he asked. 

James pointedly said nothing for a long moment, then shrugged and said, "Go on then." He drank half of his other double espresso.

"If you're not in love with him, there's no harm in carrying on, is there? You'll get it out of your system eventually."

"Right," James said. "Right, of course."

"One of you will get bored, like always, and then you'll split amiably, like always. You haven't had a screaming, throwing of books into the street style breakup in, what, seven years? It'll be fine."

"Yeah," James said. "You're right, of course. It will be fine." He drank the other half of his second coffee, then nudged the cup aside and reached for Richard's.

Richard flicked his hand away. "If you have another one of those, your two o'clock is going to end in bloodshed."

"So?"

"That's the advanced seminar, right? Don't waste your murder on them."

James laughed, feeling something in his chest ease a little. "Yeah, all right," he said. "It'll be fine."

"It will," said Richard, and then, "Was the sex at least good?"

"Ugh," said James. "It was fucking fantastic. I might be ruined for anyone else for the rest of my life, it was that good."

Richard smirked at him, but before he could comment on that, something caught his eye over James' shoulder. "Speak of the devil."

James turned sideways and saw Jeremy just coming in the door. He felt his mouth turn up into an involuntary smile. "I did tell him we'd be here," he said. "In the note."

Richard smiled and waved Jeremy over. "You are a complete numpty," he said under his breath.

Jeremy snagged an empty chair from a nearby table and flopped down into it. "Morning, gents," he said.

"That's a bad word," said Richard. "That first one. Bad. It's just another word for torture. What this is, is very, very late yesterday."

Jeremy laughed. "If you like."

"I, on the other hand," said James, "am a wholly respectable adult – well, all right." They were both laughing at him. "An adult, anyway. So I will wish you good morning, sir." Jeremy doffed an imaginary hat in response. "Sorry I had to run out, earlier," James added. "I didn't want to give my half eight lecture an excuse to complain."

Something in Jeremy's shoulders relaxed fractionally, and James realized he'd been waiting for a cue as to whether James wanted to tell people they'd slept together. The thought made him squirm. "Hope the coffee was all right."

"Delicious," Jeremy said, with just a hint of innuendo. James flushed, and Richard let out a cackle.

"Oh, you two are a fine pair," he said.

James raised two fingers at him, but he knocked his knee against Jeremy's under the table.

"Anyway," said Richard. "Maybe you can help me, Jeremy. You see, we have this tradition…"

James groaned. He'd forgotten about this, perhaps because every year it was so traumatic that he blocked it from his memory as soon as reasonably possible. "Must we?"

"What is it?" said Jeremy.

"It's the ceremonial mid-term karaoke," said Richard. "If one is idiotic enough to assign mid-term essays, they must be read and handed back by the end of the week. Then drinking and singing. Mostly drinking."

" _Must_ we?" 

"It's tradition!" Richard said. "Bad luck to break with tradition."

"Worse luck to lose an eardrum to your rendition of _Dancing Queen_ ," James said.

Richard rolled his eyes. "As if I'd do _Dancing Queen_. You insult me." He turned to Jeremy. "You're with me, right?"

"I can't sing," Jeremy said.

"That has not stopped anyone in the history of karaoke ever," said Richard. 

James laughed despite himself. "He's right," he said reluctantly. "Singing ability is beside the point. Willingness to get tarted up, get absolutely clattered, and make an arse of oneself are really the only requirements."

"I'm pretty well stocked on all of that," said Jeremy. He looked dubious, but it was clear that he'd be easily persuaded.

James sighed. "All right, all right," he said. "Friday at Village. Half eight, and may god have mercy on our souls."

\-----

Jeremy, indeed, could not sing. But after three shots of expensive tequila he was willing to make a damn fine go of it. James was perhaps a fraction of an inch more sober, but Jeremy's arm was slung across his shoulders, warm and weighty, and so somehow hollering along to _Solsbury Hill_ seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea.

It didn't hurt that Jeremy looked incredible; James had nearly swallowed his tongue when they met up outside the bar an hour and a half ago. They hadn't seen each other since coffee on Tuesday and so James had thought himself prepared for the sight of him – but he hadn't been prepared for _this_.

Jeremy was wearing a suit, dark grey with a lighter grey pinstripe, a white shirt so crisp it seemed like any crease could slice an apple in half, and a dark purple tie that shimmered when it caught the light just so. It was more than halfway to fifties gangster and it made James want to drag him into a back alley immediately, get on his knees and suck him off quick and dirty. He'd probably even have done it, if Richard weren't standing there with him and prodding him pointedly in the side.

James himself had gone for something a little less classy – jeans tight enough that he'd had to suck in a breath to get them buttoned; a thin white tee, equally tight. And then the jacket, the leather one that Jeremy had bought for him in the market. It felt shivery slick against his skin, warming inside from the heat of his body. He'd thought he looked pretty good, until he saw Jeremy; after that, he just felt like a bit of rough. 

He said as much to Jeremy, expecting a laugh, but what he got instead was Jeremy's eyes going dark. "Yeah," he said, his voice low. He put a hand on James' shoulder, slid it up to just where he could tease the back of his neck with his thumb above the collar of the jacket. "You're definitely my bit of rough." James bit his lip and tilted his head back into the touch, but he hadn't had time to say anything else, because Richard cleared his throat and Oliver held open the door to the bar with dramatic courtesy, and there was nothing to do but go in.

His friends looked, if anything, even less classy than he did. Oliver had gone full-twink – he wore plastic trousers that looked like they were painted on and a mesh shirt that was made more of holes than fabric. He had a spiked collar, too, which made being near him a little more dangerous than James might have liked. Richard had justified the look by saying it was, 'right, said Fred,' although James had no idea who Fred was or why Oliver would take his (clearly dreadful) advice on clothing.

Richard, in contrast, had taken the word 'cowboy' to its illogical extreme; James hadn't known that he could be quite so horrified by the sight of leather chaps, but he was finding new depths of that emotion tonight. He supposed he ought to be grateful that Richard's top was a relatively-restrained suede leather, decorated with endless tassels. 

Now, as the last strains of Peter Gabriel's alleged masterpiece ended, James could see his friends holding down their table in the back, each with a glass of something almost empty in hand. He and Jeremy came off the stage both sweating from the lights, wobbling down the three steps not quite in sync, and made their way back, weaving between the tables. It probably would have made things easier to let go of each other, but neither of them did so. They'd both taken off their jackets, in the heat of the bar, and the press of his body against Jeremy's felt electric, almost like skin on skin. 

It was dark in the back corner, but no less humid or loud – James had to lean in to hear as Richard said, "That wasn't entirely shit, congratulations!" James gave him two fingers, but he was still grinning, couldn't help himself. He tugged his chair away from the table and sat just as the next song started up, something pounding and jagged that James didn't recognize and didn't particularly _want_ to recognize. Jeremy settled in beside him, his leg pressed all up against James'. After a moment he put his hand on James' leg, too high to be casual. James swallowed. 

"Is it a bad idea to admit that I actually like _Solsbury Hill_?" Jeremy said, leaning in so close that his breath shivered over James' ear.

"Terrible idea," James said, turning sideways a little to wag a lazy finger at him. "I'm ashamed to know you." Jeremy's lips parted as if he were going to suck on James' finger, but he seemed to think better of it at the last moment and merely sat back, smiling.

They watched the performances for a while without speaking – some were better than others, inspiring a bit of foot tapping, but in general they were terrible. It was too loud to carry on any sort of real conversation and so they communicated mostly by facial expression. James kept catching Richard and Oliver out of the corner of his eye, talking into each other's ears or, occasionally, snogging so enthusiastically that watching it felt like voyeurism. Worse, watching it made him want to kiss Jeremy even more than he did already, made him want to press him back into the shadows of the booth and suck at his neck where it glistened with sweat, want to loosen his tie and curl his fingers under the collar to scrape his fingernails over the skin there. But he didn't quite dare, partly because they were in public but mainly because if he started it might be quite difficult to stop.

Eventually it was Oliver's turn at the mic and he sauntered up with an unashamedly-sensual strut to do something called _Sexy Back_. It was a good act; the song had an appeal that James couldn't deny and Oliver sang quite well – and more than that he could _perform_ , could smirk and shake his arse and make the whole thing look halfway to a striptease in a way that James probably would have found arousing if he hadn't known Oliver so well and if he hadn't had Jeremy sitting next to him. Jeremy, who – even doing nothing at all – eclipsed everyone else in the room. 

When Oliver came off the stage he was besieged by people handing over little scraps of paper with their phone numbers. Richard didn't look particularly upset by this and Jeremy was visibly amused, so James took his chance to go to the toilet, slipping into the last one on the end and locking the door firmly behind him before he leaned back against it and breathed for a long moment. 

He was so hard he _ached_ with it. Jeremy's hand on his thigh – just that much had been enough to make him throb. Not to mention the way Jeremy plucked at his bottom lip with his fingers when he wanted a smoke but couldn't be bothered to go outside and have one, or the way he sat with his legs spread just a little, or the way he tilted his head back when he downed a shot.

James considered getting himself off right here, right now. But even frustrated as he was, he didn't want to lose this sweet, shivery feeling, the taut-strung highwire of desire. And he wanted Jeremy himself, not just the fantasy of him. The real thing had been so much better than anything James had imagined. What would it be like the second time around? He wanted to find out. 

He stared at the hodgepodge of graffiti on the wall opposite him, attempting to distract himself by trying to trace the threads of the back-and-forth insults that always turned up in places like this:

'Dave, I fucked your mother last night.' 

'She's 85, mate. And after you were done, she told me she could do better.'

And another set:

'If you can't get your piss where it's supposed to go, you'll never get your bits anywhere either. Try to aim, fuckos.'

'Sorry, my cock's too big to handle.'

'Buy a smaller one, then.'

And, of course the obligatory 'Kilroy was here,' followed by 'Simon was here,' followed by 'Miss Penny is _always_ here, my darlings,' which made James smile.

At last he managed to calm down enough to actually take a piss, wash his hands and dry them before scrubbing them over his face and taking another series of deep breaths. He opened the door. 

Jeremy was there, leaning back against the hallway wall, one leg propped up at an angle with his foot flat against the wood paneling. He looked languid, but his eyes were dark and heated. "Those toilets big enough for two?" he said.

James felt his cock jump straight back to painfully hard. He was tempted to say yes. God, he was tempted. But it would be inconsiderate – plenty of people did fuck in these toilets, certainly, but even as drunk as he was, it wasn't enough to make him set aside his reservations. He shook his head ruefully. "Best not. It'd be rude. And Hammond will murder me if we get thrown out of here," he said. He stepped forward and ran his hands down over Jeremy's chest, tugging on his tie. "But after?"

"Shall I take you home like my bit of rough?" Jeremy said. He put his hands on James' arse and drew him in.

James groaned, letting himself rub against Jeremy's thigh for a long moment before going determinedly still lest he come in his pants right then and there. "Yeah," he said, breath harsh in his throat. His head was swimming. "Take me back to yours. Bend me over and just—"

" _Fuck_ ," Jeremy said, and then, "Get out of here. Christ, I need a moment and then another drink, if I'm going to keep myself from thinking about that for the rest of the night."

James laughed and tugged himself away, leaving Jeremy in the hall with a sultry backwards glance.

Across the room, Richard and Oliver were snogging again, Oliver sat in Richard's lap with his arms around his neck. They let up just enough for Richard to lift a hand in James' direction, showing that the table had received a fresh round of shots from one of Oliver's admirers. James nodded and crossed back to them, sliding into his seat. "Did we get the good stuff?"

"Yeah," said Richard. He smirked. "Did you get it good yourself? Didn't seem like you were gone long enough."

"Shut up," James said, giving him a flat look. Oliver laughed, and James gave him the look, too. "Both of you."

"But James," said Oliver. He was giggling.

"No," said James. "Shut up, shut up."

"You know, I don't think I will," said Richard. 

"Your face offends me," James informed him.

"That's all right, your pathetic mooning amuses me, so I think we're even."

Oliver laughed again, bright and sincere, and somehow James couldn't hold onto any irritation in the face of it. 

"I'll put your name on the list to do _Dancing Queen_ if you don't shut up," he said, but there was no weight to the threat and both Richard and Oliver knew it.

"Have a drink," Richard said, sliding a shot to him across the table, "and then tell me if you really want to do that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luluxa made some absolutely incredible art for this chapter!! Have a look at [J&J singing](http://luluxa.tumblr.com/post/165679628746/jeremy-indeed-could-not-sing-but-after-three). <3 <3


	12. Chapter 12

They parted from Oliver and Richard at the end of the road – a halfhearted exchange of "g'night" all around rather than anything substantial in an unmistakable indication that all involved wanted to get home and get naked as quickly as possible. Jeremy had one hand in James' back pocket already, tugging him along, fingers pressed into the flesh of his arse so that James couldn't help but wonder if he'd bruise. He wanted to.

After Jeremy had come back from the toilet they'd done another round of shots – James had offered up his arm and then had to bite down on his lip to keep from moaning when Jeremy smeared the lime on him, rubbed in the salt with a firm rub of his thumb. His hand on James' wrist was strong as he lifted it to his mouth, his tongue lapping across the skin with slow deliberation. He'd given James a look from underneath his eyelashes that said he knew exactly what he was doing. Then he'd offered up his own arm and James had to experience the whole thing all over again from the opposite side, the feeling of Jeremy's warm skin under his tongue and the liquid heat of the shot in his mouth. 

The only thing that had kept him from just sliding under the table and getting Jeremy's cock in his mouth was the fact that it had been Richard's turn at the mic, and at the end of his rendition of _Like a Virgin_ , the urge had definitely cooled off. 

But James thought about it now as they made their way to Jeremy's flat. It wasn't far, but he was carrying his jacket over one arm, at first too overheated from the bar to feel the cool night air and then as an excuse to lean into Jeremy's side, to wrap an arm around his waist and hold him close. By the time they reached the door he'd begun to shiver from the combination of cold and arousal. 

They were barely inside when Jeremy pushed him up against the wall and leaned in to kiss him, hard and fast. James groaned, thrusting helplessly against his thigh. He was hard already, he was still hard, he was… he didn't know what he was, other than hot and shuddering and moaning into Jeremy's mouth. He tasted like tequila and lime and salt, a heady combination on his lips just as it had been on his wrist.

"Shameless tart," Jeremy said, in between kisses. 

"What else should I be," said James, "when a strange man takes me home with him?" He wanted to put his hands on Jeremy's hips but the jacket over his arm was getting in the way; he fumbled sideways and managed to hook it onto the side of something that he thought was a coat rack – a triumph, given how wobbly he was from the tequila and from the feeling of Jeremy's hands on his chest.

Jeremy huffed out a laugh. "Am I a strange man?" 

James kissed him again, hooked his fingers in Jeremy's belt loops and kissed up the line of his jaw to murmur in his ear. "Very strange."

They were both still laughing as Jeremy tugged him from the hall into the unlit sitting room. There was a sofa there; Jeremy whirled him around and then put one broad palm in the center of James' back to bend him over it. "Yeah?"

" _Yes_." 

Jeremy reached around to unfasten James' trousers and then he was shoving them down, and his pants, just far enough to bare his arse and his cock but not enough to let him spread his legs. Jeremy's hands let go then, but James stayed where he was, staring blindly at the shadowed room, listening to the sounds of Jeremy unzipping his own trousers, a condom wrapper being opened, Jeremy's groan as he rolled it on.

He must have been carrying it in his pocket, James realized – which meant he'd been planning for this, or at least hoping for it. The thought made his cock jump. He was shivering again already, desperately hard.

Jeremy's hand came around to his cock, gathering James' precome with a twist of his wrist that wasn't quite a stroke. Then he was slicking the back of James' thighs with it, reaching between them to tease across his hole but not pushing in. 

"Fuck," James said. "Going to—"

"Yeah," said Jeremy. He sounded breathless. "Just like this." His hand went to James' hip, holding him steady, and then he was pressing his cock between James' legs, sliding into the vee with one quick push.

James didn't do this kind of sex often, which lent a certain excitement to it – as if it was extra filthy, as if there must be some reason they couldn't fuck properly, as if they needed to hurry or needed to be quiet or both. Like they really _were_ in that toilet at the bar. 

He squeezed his thighs together, tighter, feeling Jeremy's cock just nudging against his balls with each thrust. Jeremy groaned, grabbed James' shoulder with his free hand and tugged him up a little. James put his palms to the edge of the sofa and arched his back; the movement making his thighs tighter still.

"Shit," Jeremy said, pressing his mouth to James' shoulder, scraping his teeth across the fabric of James' tee. "That's good. That's— You're so good. Christ."

James flushed at the praise; he bowed his head instinctively to hide it even though Jeremy couldn't possibly see. His hair was sweat-soaked where it curled against his face, shaking each time he drew a breath, each time Jeremy thrust against him. The push of Jeremy's cock between his legs was exquisite – just enough sensation to tease, not enough to make him come. 

Still, he wasn't going to last long, not after having been keyed up all evening; it seemed like Jeremy was much the same, given how heavily he was breathing. James rocked back against him, trying to meet each movement with his own, trying to chase just a little bit more touch. "God, you feel—"

"Yeah?" The eager way Jeremy said it made James' heart thump even more wildly.

"Hot," James said, which was woefully inadequate. He was no good with words unless Wittgenstein was involved. "I wanted you all night. Sweated with it."

" _Fuck_." Jeremy started to reach his hand around, but stopped when James shook his head. 

"Make me wait for it," James rasped. Jeremy moaned and bit down hard on his shoulder; it stung, but there was a pleasure in the dart of pain, a sharpness that cut through his blurred daze of arousal. 

"You—" Jeremy said, shoving against him with a sharp jerk of his hips. "Absolute—" But he didn't finish the sentence, just gasped and came with a long, intense shudder that set James' whole body to shaking. 

It lasted a while – and Jeremy was still breathing hard when he finally pulled back. He ran his hands down over James' back to give his arse a firm, slow squeeze. "Fuck, that was good," he said, and then, "Should I carry on making you wait? It's only just past one, we've got hours yet before morning." There was a laugh in his voice.

James pushed back into the touch, parting his legs as best he could with trousers and pants still trapping him. "Put your fingers in me," he said. All those teasing thrusts had left him aching for it. "Two, quick, hard."

"Yeah," Jeremy said fervently. "Can I suck you, too?"

God, it was a fantastic thought – James could only make an unintelligible noise of agreement. Jeremy tugged at his hips, whirling him around, and then he sunk to his knees. The room was too dark for James to see much, but Jeremy was touching him almost immediately, one hand sliding back to thrust two fingers inside him with no preamble, sharp and demanding and unbelievably good. James gasped, then cut the breath off short when Jeremy's other hand curled around his cock, holding it steady so that he could lick across the tip.

" _Christ_ ," James said, unsteadily. He braced himself with one hand on the back of the sofa and began to rock into the touch, fucking himself on Jeremy's fingers. His other hand was trembling madly and so he curled his fingers into Jeremy's hair, careful not to tug on it.

"You can pull," Jeremy murmured. "A bit." He parted his lips and took James in, slick and hot, all tongue at first and then quick darting sucks that almost matched the rhythm of his hand. 

"Yeah," James said. "Yes, fuck, that's…" It took almost all of his remaining control to keep his hand from clenching hard in Jeremy's hair. Jeremy's fingers were just grazing his prostate with each push, still teasing even like this. James let his head drop back, closed his eyes just so he could focus on the feeling of it, riding the buzz of tequila and arousal. "So good. Right there. Right—" And he tipped over the edge, half inevitable and half surprised, mouth fallen open just to suck in enough air. Jeremy moaned and took it, swallowing roughly as James pushed hard into his mouth. 

He shuddered his way through it, gasping, letting the tight heat of Jeremy's mouth work around him until he hit the point of oversensitive and pulled back. "Fuck," he said, a little dizzy. 

Jeremy made a smug noise. James tugged at his hair in response, but he couldn't say the smugness was undeserved. Jeremy levered himself up and pulled him into a kiss; he was wobbling enough that James decided to feel smug himself. They leaned together for a long moment. "Shower?" Jeremy offered at last. "Or just sleep?"

James considered. "Shower," he said. He was liable to wake up glued to himself, otherwise.

They didn't bother turning on the lights in the bathroom, just left the door open and made do with the residual light from the moon outside as they washed each other. It was soft, peaceful after the urgency of sex; James found himself drooping and had to hold onto Jeremy's arms for balance. Afterward, they gathered up their clothes and stumbled the three steps down the hall to the bedroom – Jeremy's flat appeared to be as tiny as James' – and then gave in to the low, sweet siren call of the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be more than porn in this story eventually.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen [Luluxa's art of J&J singing karaoke](http://luluxa.tumblr.com/post/165679628746/jeremy-indeed-could-not-sing-but-after-three%22), go and check it out immediately!

James woke to late morning autumn sun, the light just begun to edge from white into soft butter yellow. The bedroom door was closed and the other half of the bed was empty, but there was a plush green dressing gown draped invitingly across the end of the bed. Considering the crumpled heap in the corner that contained his pants, he was grateful for the loan. He stood, scrubbing a hand over his face and through his hair. He'd gone to sleep with it still wet so there was really no point in attempting to straighten it; he slipped on the dressing gown instead before letting himself examine Jeremy's bedroom. The walls were bare but the bed was substantial; it took up most of the space, its headboard a long, irregular slab of wood that had been polished until every knot and curl of it gleamed. There was a dresser of a similar style in the far corner, and though the sides of the drawers had been squared off for practicality, it still seemed more sculpture than furniture.

One of the closet doors was slightly ajar. James hesitated for a moment, then prodded it open with his foot so as to preserve plausible deniability. There were a few suits hanging there, shirts in varying shades of jewel tones, the peacock blue jacket that Jeremy had bought in the market which remained as absurd as ever. A black leather vest, which was hilarious. A dark green smoking jacket that made James immediately think of Jeremy in the winter, sitting in a wing-backed chair in front of a roaring fire, reading, a glass of port at his side. James sitting across from him in a matching chair, lifting his feet up to prop them in Jeremy's lap.

_You are utterly ridiculous,_ he told himself, and nudged the closet shut again. He padded out into the hallway.

There were sounds coming from the other side of the flat, obviously kitchen-based – the burble of coffee percolating, the dull clank of a pan being set on a stovetop. He knew he ought to head there immediately, but the lure of examining the rest of the flat was too strong to ignore. He wandered into the sitting room instead. 

The first thing he noticed was that there were books everywhere. Not just on the bookcases, of which there were many, but stacked in piles on nearly every available surface: the far end of the sofa (some slid precariously sideways from last night's exertions), the floor in front of the near end of the sofa, the coffee table, the small side table, the top of the television, the edge of the desk.

James peered at the ones closest to him and found that the arrangement was neither by color nor by author nor by subject; it looked haphazard and yet there was _some_ order to it, there must be. He could sense it even if he couldn't name it. Some of the books were old, others new – but even the new ones were rumpled, dogeared, annotated with scraps of paper sticking every which way. He reached out and picked one up but didn't open it, just ran his thumb idly along the bottom corner of the pages, feeling the satisfyingly familiar buzz of rifling paper. After a moment he put it back again, straightening the stack. 

Where bookcases couldn't be crammed in, there was artwork. Nothing big, nothing professional, but there were many pieces, all as much a hodgepodge of color and style as the books – so much so that it was hard to see where one ended and the other began. James kept finding his eye caught by one piece and then another before he'd even really had a chance to look at the first one. At last he settled on one more or less at random, a piece with a jagged swoop of red paint; he shuffled sideways around a pile of books and had just about leaned in when he heard Jeremy's footsteps come closer. He turned, just in time to see him appear in the doorway of the kitchen. He was wearing a similar dressing gown to James', though his was blue, with a white tee just visible where the two halves of the robe parted.

"Getting a good look in?" 

"Of course," said James.

They grinned stupidly at each other for a moment. "Fancy a bit of breakfast?" Jeremy said.

"God, yes," said James. He wasn't precisely hungover, but his body felt like more liquid than solid, just at the moment. He followed Jeremy into the kitchen and sat down in one of the chairs at the table. "What's on offer?"

"Well," Jeremy said. "Bacon sandwich or… bacon sandwich?"

James laughed. "What about a bacon sandwich?" 

"Brilliant," said Jeremy. "I can do that."

"Is that an indication of the state of your fridge, or your cooking ability?"

"Oh, cooking ability, absolutely. I can do bacon, after years of practice and the destruction of six smoke alarms. Anything else, no."

James huffed at him. "You can't sing and you can't cook, eh? I'm beginning to think I've got the short end of the stick here."

"I do have other talents," Jeremy pointed out.

"If I need things getting out of high cabinets, I'll certainly know who to call."

Jeremy laughed. "That's not exactly what I meant." He came closer and nudged his knee against James' where it peeked out from the edge of the dressing gown.

"DIY, then?" said James. "Sewing, perhaps? Speaking Esperanto? Welding?"

Jeremy gave James' shoulder a shove. "Idiot." His hand slid upwards, curling around the back of James' neck. "Maybe I ought to just demonstrate."

"That sounds good," said James. He let Jeremy draw him up out of the chair. "I'm sure I'll get the idea eventually." 

\-----

When they woke the second time, it was full afternoon. James sat up and stretched his arms luxuriantly over his head, held them there long enough for the knotted tendons in his shoulders to relax. "I'd better go," he said reluctantly. "I've got to write my guest lecture for Hammond's class for Tuesday."

"You do guest lectures?" Jeremy asked, propping himself up on one elbow. The sheet slipped down over his chest and James' eyes followed it for a long moment before he realized what he was doing.

"Not often," he said. "But Hammond and I had a bet about—" he realized suddenly that the natural end of that sentence was 'whether you'd be fuckable or not' and cut himself off. "About… a thing. The details aren't important." Jeremy raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "Anyway," said James, flushing a little. "I lost. So now I have to give a guest lecture."

"What are you going to lecture on?"

"Actually, it's the trolley problem," said James. "In the context of self-driving cars, in this case. Hence why it applies to Hammond's advanced engineering group."

"Even though it's a fatuous and simplistic scenario created to abstract philosophy from reality, which is a denial of its ultimate purpose and also a waste of everyone's fucking time?"

"I can't believe you remember that rant."

Jeremy grinned. "It was particularly memorable, since by the end of it I was thinking quite seriously about whether I could make a pass at you."

"You were not," said James, standing up.

"Was."

"Pull the other one."

"I'll give it a go, if you come back in here."

James laughed. "Tempting," he said, crossing to the corner where his clothes lay in a heap. If he'd been even marginally more sober or marginally less shagged out last night, he probably would have folded them. He leaned down and snagged his jeans with one hand. In the full sunlight they looked… tight. Very tight. He made a considering noise.

"Want to borrow a pair?" Jeremy said. 

The thought was appealing, and not just because he wouldn't have to cram himself into an insufficient amount of denim. "You don't mind?"

"Nah," said Jeremy. He slid out of the bed and crossed to the dresser, pulling out a pair of jeans and then some worn flannel pajama bottoms for himself. "We can get in on that trend. You know, the boyfriend jeans thing."

"Is that a thing?" James asked, bemused.

"Oh, yes. My students assure me it's all the rage."

His tone sounded a little too light to be natural, and James realized that he was testing the waters, tossing out the word – 'boyfriend' – to see what James did with it.

James wasn't particularly fond of it, as a word, given that neither of them could be called 'boy' in even the broadest definition. But he had to admit that it would make things easier. James couldn't go around introducing him as "Jeremy, who fucks like a champion." And all of the alternatives were worse, were things that made it sound more than it was: significant other, partner. No, none of those would do.

"You know me, I'm a slave to fashion," he drawled. "Boyfriend jeans it is."

Jeremy smirked and unfolded the jeans. "Should I help you put them on?" he said, giving them a little waggle.

"Somehow I doubt your commitment to getting me _into_ clothing," said James.

"Curses, foiled again," said Jeremy, but he didn't interfere as James took the jeans out of his hand. 

He got dressed, abandoning his grubby pants to Jeremy's rubbish bin in favor of going bare. The denim was worn soft where it shivered over his skin; James decided that the young people of the day were certainly onto something with the whole 'boyfriend jeans' concept. His shirt was salvageable and so he tugged that on as well, then folded up his own jeans and tucked them under his arm.

Jeremy had put on his pajama bottoms and he followed James to the door. There was a briefly awkward moment there when neither of them seemed to know what to do; James pushed past it by sliding a hand up Jeremy's shoulder and pulling him in for a kiss.

"See you later?" Jeremy said, when they parted. He was breathing hard. 

"Yeah," said James. He licked his lips, wondering if they'd ever have a kiss that wasn't fantastic. "I will definitely see you later."

\-----

From Sunday to Tuesday, he panicked.

It had been easy to fall into bed with Jeremy the first time. Easy the second time, easy to wake up and then fall back into bed for the third time. But sex was usually easy for him – the difficult bit would be mixing it with everything else.

They might do nothing but fuck. It had happened before, when the sex was that good. Maybe Jeremy wouldn't want to do anything else, maybe he'd get tired of wandering around the city on Saturdays, tired of listening to records, tired of talking bollocks. Maybe James himself wouldn't want to do anything but fuck. Somehow that seemed worse than having it be Jeremy; he didn't know why.

What did friendship even look like, anyway? James had it with Richard, but he couldn't imagine having the same thing with Jeremy. There were similarities to their interactions, of course: the enjoyment of taking the piss, for one, and a pleasure in each other's company, an ability to sit and talk and make each other laugh. A willingness to come through for each other in a tight spot.

But Jeremy had already offered James so much more of himself than Richard ever had. Little pieces – not secrets, exactly, but the sorts of truths that could easily have been left unsaid. As if he already knew that James was worthy of his trust.

James wasn't used to that. He didn't think he could afford to _get_ used to it. But it seemed like the only other option was to fuck everything up, deliberately and immediately, and he already knew he wasn't going to do that. 

No, he'd have to muddle through somehow, and hope to hold onto the good while it lasted. And when Jeremy left, in the spring, at least James would have some really excellent sex to look back on.


	14. Chapter 14

"The trolley problem," James announced, projecting enough that he could be heard all the way at the back of the auditorium. "It's a simple scenario. Some of you may know it already, but I'll give you a quick outline. There is a runaway trolley on a railroad track. Ahead of it, there are five people tied to the track and unable to move – just like in one of those old silent movies. _You_ are standing in a distant corner of the train yard next to a lever. If you pull it, the trolley will be diverted onto a different track. But on this second track, there is one person tied down. Your options, therefore, are twofold. Do you do nothing, and let the trolley kill the five people on the track ahead? Or do you pull the lever and divert it, where it kills only one person?"

He paused a moment to let it sink in, watching the expressions of the students change as they considered it. "Some of you," he said, "are thinking, 'Which option would I choose? What framework would give me the best chance to make the right decision?' Because it's important, isn't it? To be prepared to make that choice, if you had to." Some of the students were nodding. "You're completely wrong," James said. All of them stopped nodding, but now others were starting to smile. 

"And some of you," James continued, "are thinking that this is a load of toss. That it's a fatuous and simplistic scenario designed to abstract philosophy from reality, which is ultimately a waste of everyone's fucking time." More nods, now. "You are _also_ completely wrong," James said. 

Now he really had their attention. "Let's think about the real world," he said. "Consider, for example, the self-driving car…"

\-----

Afterwards he lingered at the edge of the stage, taking questions from a few interested students and shaking off attempts at argument from several others. Richard was watching from the back of the room, looking amused, but eventually he came down and ran off the stragglers just at the point where James was beginning to get irritated.

"Not bad, old man," Richard said, when they were alone. "They might even have learned something."

"Miracles can happen," James agreed, and they headed for the door.

When he opened it, Jeremy was there, leant back against the opposite wall with one leg propped up, notebook in hand, scribbling away. James sucked in a breath, and Jeremy looked up at the sound of it."I can't believe you opened with that rant and then fucking undercut it," Jeremy said.

James burst out laughing, his apprehension melting away. "Did you actually listen to the whole thing from out here?"

"Of course," said Jeremy.

" _Why?_ "

From beside him, Richard made a frustrated noise. "I promise you he's not always this idiotic," he said to Jeremy.

"His arse makes up for it," Jeremy said.

"Oi!"

The two of them laughed at him.

"In any case," said Jeremy, "Would the two of you care for a drink and a bite to eat? I figured you might need one, after that."

"God, yes," said Richard. "Listening to James talk always makes me need a chemical buffer."

"Twat," James said. "Where are we going, then?"

"I was thinking about this place I was recommended – it's Brazilian."

James had no idea what Brazilian food was like, but he was certainly willing to find out. "Sure," he said. 

Richard considered, then apparently decided that he was feeling adventurous and nodded. "Sounds good. Okay if Oliver joins us?"

"'Course," said Jeremy. 

\-----

It was a short walk to the restaurant, which was a blessing since it meant that James didn't have too much time to dwell on the fact that Jeremy had come to listen to his lecture. The thought that Jeremy simply wanted to hear him… it was both flattering and alarming in equal measure. He didn't know what to think of it. On the one hand, it ought to have been a relief that they could interact as friends still. On the other hand, James' lectures were strangely intimate things – glimpses inside his mind even though they came out through the filter of 'suitable for undergraduates.' 

Perhaps that was a good thing, a way to match Jeremy's honesty without having to force himself awkwardly into reciprocating in the same way. James decided this was the simplest way to think of it, not least because it meant he could _stop_ thinking about it.

Oliver was waiting at the restaurant when they arrived, and they settled at a table. The conversation ranged wildly from there – Richard’s survey class was doing food photography and he regaled them with tales of shooting sessions gone horribly wrong. Stebbins had managed to set fire to his oatmeal, a feat which James hadn’t even thought possible. Another student had splattered chocolate over the entire studio and everything else had to be put on hold while he cleaned it from top to bottom.

The topic turned to film and then to books. Unsurprisingly, Jeremy had many opinions there, and he and Oliver fell into a discussion of translation that James was fascinated by, although he understood few of the references.

"It's all about context," Oliver said. 

"Right. Far more than about exactitude." 

" _Yes_. But even the upper years don't quite get it. Oh, they give lip service to it, bless them. But deep down in their hearts they still think they can just stick in a word and get another word and poof! A translation."

"Have you tried making them read Eugene Nida?" said Jeremy. 

"I'm lucky to get them to read their source material through more than once. Getting to Nida would be a miracle." He didn't sound particularly angry about it, but James wasn't sure he'd seen Oliver even so much as mildly cross.

Jeremy laughed. "I can believe that."

"Have you done much translation work, then?" Oliver asked. 

"I've only collaborated on two projects," said Jeremy, "and only on the English side. I have a little functional Italian, but that's all, so my role was more advisory than hands on."

"Interesting," said Oliver. "How did you go about it?"

"Jem – the translator – did the first pass, and then she and I sat and hashed through it sentence by sentence. She'd sort of talk around the meaning that she wanted, and I'd suggest things, and she'd tell me I was full of shit, etc." That got a laugh from the whole table. "Then repeat," Jeremy said, twirling a finger in a slow circle. "Endlessly. Took us four months to get through the first book and, mercifully, only six weeks for the second one."

"Crikey," Richard blurted, which was such an odd word coming from him that James turned to give him an incredulous look. "Shut up," said Richard.

"I thought for a moment it was International Coming Out as a Brummie Day," said James.

"Piss off," Richard said.

"What about you?" said Jeremy, ignoring them both. "What kind of work have you done?"

"Mostly mysteries," Oliver said. "There's quite a good market for crime thrillers these days. Scandinavian is especially in vogue, but French is doing nicely as well. And the French style of mystery tends to be a bit sexier, which has its own audience." 

Jeremy nodded. "Yes, I can see that."

"I am attempting some Proust, though," Oliver said – it was almost reluctant, as if he hadn't quite meant to say it. "Reading the students' work is painful, and though the mysteries are enjoyable, they're a little lightweight. Proust, well. I don't expect it to go anywhere, commercially. It's been done more times than anyone can count. But I found myself fancying something with more… depth."

Jeremy hummed in understanding. Out of the corner of his eye, James could see Richard looking at Oliver with an odd look on his face. 

Oliver didn't seem to notice; he turned to James instead. "What about you, James? Working on anything in particular?"

"I've just sent off the revisions to my paper on external and internal conditions for knowledge in the digital age. That's _epistemology_ , Hammond," he said pointedly. Richard rolled his eyes.

"What do you mean by conditions for knowledge?" said Oliver. "Bearing in mind that I know absolutely nothing at all about philosophy, externally or internally, or in any other way."

James grinned at that. "Well, it's easier to explain with an example," he said "So. You're walking by a field, and you see a sheep in it. Do you know that there is a sheep in the field?"

Oliver blinked. "I'd say yes, I suppose."

"What if it's not a sheep? It's a robot that looks exactly like a sheep, and you can't tell the difference. Do you still know there's a sheep in the field?"

"I— hmm. No. If there isn't a sheep in the field, then I think I know it, but I don't actually know it."

"What if the thing you see is a robot sheep, but behind it, the field dips down and there is a real sheep that you can't see?"

Oliver opened his mouth, hesitated, and then shut it again. At last he said, "So I think I know it, and it's true, but the reason I think I know it isn't _how_ it's true."

"Exactly."

"I guess I think I still don't know it."

"So there are both internal and external conditions for your knowledge of the sheep in the field, as well as a connection between the two. It has to be true and you also have to be _justified_ in believing it's true."

"Right."

"That's the basic question. Of course, there isn't universal agreement on any of that, not remotely."

"Of course," Oliver said, laughing.

"Do any philosophers ever agree on anything at all?" said Richard.

"Oh, no, no," said James. "Getting the degree requires you to sign a contract about it."

"So you're all agreeing that all of you should never agree?" Jeremy said with a grin.

"Augh!" said Richard. "Stop, enough already!"

James laughed. "All right."

They turned the topic to Richard's projects instead, which were actually somewhat interesting. He was planning to bring paint into his sculptures ("I'll tell people it's all about how we try to hide the influence of the artificial on the natural. But honestly, I just fancy some paint.") and had therefore spent an unwise amount of money in the art store.

"I will absolutely use it all," he said. "I will. It's just that it does look a bit… much. Right now."

"Mmhmm," said Oliver, raising an eyebrow.

"I will!"

"Speaking of art, or at least of people pretending to make it," said Jeremy, "there's an exhibition on at the Tate about World War I propaganda art which I'd like to see. Any interest?"

"I refuse to see art with James," Richard said immediately. "Because he's an utter philistine."

James made a rude noise.

"Well, you are!"

"Just because I don't go into raptures about things that look like they were painted on a hot day."

"That was Salvador Dali, you cretin!"

"Children, children," said Oliver. He gave Jeremy an amused look. "I'm afraid the enterprise is doomed," he said.

"Yes, I can see that."

"I'd love to go with _you_ ," James said to Jeremy. "Since I'm assuming you won't make me look at an out-of-focus rendering of a horse's backside."

"I promise," Jeremy said solemnly. Richard huffed, but Oliver put a hand over his mouth and cheerfully changed the topic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, Richard and Oliver have a scintilla of plot.


	15. Chapter 15

The Tate was packed on Saturday. Navigating it was like running an obstacle course: students in garish jackets carrying sketchpads, parents with bored children of varying ages, tourists bracketed in awkward audio guide headphones, and even the occasional adult who, like Jeremy, just wanted to go out on the weekend and see art. 

It might have been infuriating, if James had known anything about what was on the walls and if he'd come for something in particular. As it was, he was perfectly happy to trail along in Jeremy's wake, pausing to look at whatever he looked at and listening whenever he started talking about it. Occasionally Jeremy would trail off mid-sentence and start scribbling in his notebook; in those moments, James would wander off a little, making no effort to get a comprehensive view of the exhibit but just heading towards whatever seemed interesting from a distance.

And there _were_ things that caught his eye: little sharp etchings of men marching to war or sat in a chaotic pile of bodies to keep each other warm in the trenches; crude charcoal drawings of men with faces missing; propaganda posters exhorting the viewer to do their part. 

Every once in a while he'd glance back to Jeremy, just to check in, and when their eyes met, James would be pulled into his orbit once again and they'd go on. 

Eventually they'd seen everything in the exhibit and went out into the crisp sunlit air, turning towards James' flat without speaking. Jeremy was clearly caught up in something in his own head, looking where he was going only distantly. He had his hands in his pockets as he walked, swinging the front of his coat back and forth with each step; James tried not to find it charming.

Once they were back at the flat, they kicked off their shoes and hung up their coats. "Music?" James said, breaking the silence. 

"Yeah. You pick."

James crossed to the bookcase and ran his fingertips down the ridged edges of his collection. After a moment he found a familiar favorite and tugged it out. He set it on the turntable and let the needle down.

Cello, dark and deep. An irregular trill of flute. Piano notes like droplets trilling down the line of an iron railing, just beginning to evaporate in the morning sunlight. It was a bit of a cliché, as prog rock went – Jeremy raised an eyebrow sardonically, but he didn't comment, just sat down on the end of the chaise. James dithered for a moment – they hadn't actually been here, doing this, since they'd slept together, and he didn't really know how it ought to go. Should he go back to his usual perch in the armchair?

But Jeremy beckoned and so James went obediently, let himself be manhandled into place at the tall end of the chaise. Then Jeremy settled against him, as if James were nothing but a large, awkwardly-shaped pillow. They were so close; James turned sideways a little and kissed him.

They stayed there for a while, idly, listening to the music. James ended up with one arm over Jeremy's shoulders; at some point he started rubbing his thumb and fingernails up the side of Jeremy's neck, tracing the lines of his tattoo. Jeremy slowly went soft and limp against him, his breathing slowing. James wondered if he was going to fall asleep, but after another few minutes he drew in a long breath. 

"You can ask, if you want," he said. "About the ink, I mean."

"I have to admit I'm curious," said James. "Is it ivy? Starfish?"

Jeremy snorted a laugh. "And what's the significance of my starfish, then?"

"Is it that you can regrow your body parts if they get cut off? Because if it isn't, then I must admit I haven't the foggiest."

"That would be handy, I suppose, but no." Jeremy paused, and James thought for a moment that he'd changed his mind about answering, but apparently he was only gathering his thoughts. "You've seen Escher's work, haven't you? The artist?"

"Of course," James said automatically, and then the penny dropped. "Ah. I see it now." The lines and shapes fitted together in a repeating pattern, spread out not from one central point but as if it were only a piece of some larger plane. In theory the image could have gone on forever, circling around Jeremy's neck and down his chest, over his arms and out to his fingers, out over all the surfaces of the world.

"I wanted something… infinite," Jeremy said. "Like possibility. Like the things we can imagine." It was another of Jeremy's devastating truths, an honesty that James barely knew how to accept, much less return. "And in ink, of course," Jeremy continued. "I suppose that's not exactly creative symbolism, for a writer, but the classics are classic for a reason."

James smiled. "I rather like it," he said. "It was the first thing about you that caught my attention."

"In a good way?" 

"I wanted to taste it," James said wryly. "Take that as you will."

"Definitely a good way," Jeremy said. James could hear the smile in his voice.

"And why here?" said James, tracing his thumbnail over the lines of ink again. "Why not—" he nudged at Jeremy's right arm – his _writing_ arm. "Why not another classic?"

"Because I knew once I got it there, I'd never manage to get a proper job," said Jeremy. James could hear the grin in his voice before it turned pensive. "I s'pose it was half to prove to myself that I was serious about writing and half to bludgeon myself into being serious about writing. After I got the ink, I couldn't go back."

"Did you ever want to?"

"A few times," Jeremy said. "But mostly not. Too stubborn, I guess."

"You? Stubborn?"

Jeremy thumped his knee. "Shut up," he said, laughing. "What about yours, then? If you don't mind telling it."

James looked down at his arm. It was a mix of natural and mathematical, symbols and shapes from different philosophical traditions all overlapping and twining among each other. He knew some of his colleagues thought the whole thing was a bit muddled, but that was sort of the point. 

"I wanted to have a little of everything, all the different ways that people use symbols to to conceptualize the world," he said. "Philosophy… it isn't pure, it _shouldn't_ be pure. Anyone who says they've got all the answers is selling something. You've got to look for the bits where they match with each other, got to pick and choose the things that make sense from the things that don't. And you can't view anything objectively, you can't come at an idea without your own context." Jeremy was nodding. "And as for ink… I wanted something permanent. Once you have an idea, it changes the way you interact with the world. Irrevocably." He paused. "I suppose that, like you, I wanted to have a reminder of that. A reminder that you can't go back."

"Yeah," Jeremy said. "Yeah. You can't go back." He wasn't laughing any more, but James didn't feel much like laughing, either. They sat in silence until side A of the record ended, and then Jeremy turned around and kissed him full on, slow and deep.

Their earlier kisses had been slow, too, but this was something else entirely. Jeremy's hands were big and warm where they cupped his face, just a little tighter than normal, as if he didn't want to let go. James didn't want to let go either.

Eventually they separated just enough to make it to the bedroom. Jeremy seemed to have some sort of vision of how he wanted this to go, because he wouldn't stop teasing as he undressed James and then himself, and then pulled him into bed. He kept sucking kisses into James' shoulder and stomach and hip, nipping a little with his teeth, rolling their bodies together in slow, shuddering waves. 

James could only cling on, could only bite down on his bottom lip every time Jeremy drew a fingernail over some exposed patch of skin, could only gasp at each open-mouthed kiss or swirling lick. He was shivering by the time Jeremy tugged him up from where they lay together, nudging his legs until they hung over the edge of the bed.

"Hands," Jeremy said. James presented his hands for inspection, a little bemused. Jeremy took one of them in each of his own and pressed them to the mattress.

_Fuck,_ James thought. He curled his fingers there and held on tightly as Jeremy slid off the bed to kneel between his legs. It was a breathtaking sight – with all of him on display, broad and pale and hairy, with his cock thick and strong, with his blue eyes looking up with such intensity of focus. James ached just looking at him.

Jeremy leaned in, teasing him again with kisses to his knees and the insides of his thighs, the vee of his hips. James' cock was heavy with sweet-thick desire. "Jeremy—"

"Mmm?" He sucked the tip of James' cock into his mouth slowly, flicking his tongue over the foreskin. James forgot whatever it was he'd been intending to say, if it had been anything at all. Jeremy took him a little deeper, one hand circling the base of James' cock to hold him steady. James whined in the back of his throat and Jeremy gave a soft, humming laugh that made him shudder.

Jeremy sucked him slowly for a while, drawing him almost to the brink of orgasm and then going still just before he could come. For long moments he would just hold James in his mouth, warm and soft and yet not quite enough to push him over the edge. And when James had calmed a little, Jeremy would start sucking him all over again.

It was maddening. James wondered briefly where Jeremy had learned this sort of patience – because in so many other things he wasn't patient at all – but he couldn't hold onto the thought, not when Jeremy's mouth was so sweet and wet. 

At last Jeremy pulled off him with a lingering caress of lips. James was too dazed to even guess at what Jeremy intended to do next, but it was still surprising when what he did was turn his head aside and drag his bearded jaw up the length of James' cock. 

It was rough, the rasp of it not quite pain and not quite pleasure. James shuddered hard enough to lose his grip on the edge of the bed; all the hair on his arms was standing on end. Jeremy waited, his eyes locked on James'. 

James knew he ought to say something, but it was impossible to focus on anything other than that gaze.

"Too much?" Jeremy asked. 

_Too much,_ James thought, but he wasn't sure exactly what he meant by it. He panted, considering. "Once more," he said at last. Jeremy leaned in and did it again on the other side, slowly but unyielding, until James had to throw his head back and bite his lip to keep from sobbing.

He was gasping for air now and so Jeremy gave him a moment before he came back. This time all he did was kiss the tip of James' cock softly, a brief caress. Then another kiss, and another, all as sweet as the first one. Then a little dart of tongue, soothing over the still-tingling skin. James' breath was catching in his throat at each touch. His cock was throbbing and it felt incredible, but there was a little bit of distance to the feeling – as if the pleasure of it wasn't quite the point. Jeremy's eyes were still fixed on him.

Slowly he worked James back up again with kisses and licks and then gentle sucks that got tighter until James was moaning and shaking, his hands clinging desperately to the edge of the bed. And suddenly he couldn't _not_ be touching Jeremy and so he reached out to grip his shoulder with one desperate hand, grounding himself with just that little bit of control. Jeremy groaned at the touch and the look in his eye went even darker, and at last James _did_ sob, a great gasp of air, and came with his fingers clenched hard into muscle to keep Jeremy close.

It took a long time to come down. Even when he could think more or less in words again, there was a dreamlike quality to the world. Jeremy was still kneeling between his legs, looking up, but he was stroking himself slowly now, lips parted and a flush all down his neck and chest.

"Beautiful," James said; the word felt like treacle in his mouth. 

Jeremy's flush deepened. "Yeah?"

"Mmhmm." James loosened his grip on Jeremy's shoulder and trailed his fingertips upwards, scraping over his Adam's apple and then to the hollow under his jaw and then to his mouth. Jeremy caught them between his lips and gave them a suck, but James didn't let him have it for more than a moment. "C'mere."

He drew Jeremy upwards into the bed, rolling them over languidly so that he was on top. Jeremy groaned and arched up against him. "James—"

James kissed him, then slid downward so that he could take Jeremy's cock in his mouth. 

" _Oh_ ," Jeremy said. "James. I—" He put a hand in James' hair, tugging on him tentatively. James let himself be pulled, going lax until Jeremy got the idea. "Fuck," Jeremy said softly. He began to rock up into James' mouth, fucking into him with long, slow slides in and out again. James closed his eyes and just breathed in the scent of him, listened to his shuddering half-moans. He lost track of time, the dreaminess intensifying as Jeremy's hand tightened in his hair and his cock pressed deeper into James' throat with each thrust. 

"Hands," Jeremy said at last, gasping. James slid his hands up over Jeremy's thighs, slowly, until just when they were curled around his hipbones and Jeremy murmured, "There. Right there." He pulled James' hair tighter, tighter still, until it was just short of true pain. "Make me give it to you."

A shudder ran through James' body. He tugged at Jeremy's hips, matching the motion to each thrust so that he was pulling Jeremy's cock even deeper, urging him on. It was harder to breathe like this but he couldn't care, just begged for it with his hands and took it with his mouth, until Jeremy groaned long and low and came with one last sweet push in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James' music choice is the King Crimson album _Islands_ , beginning with [Formentera Lady](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rfGA56ZWWWw).
> 
> And one example of something from the museum is [Returning to the Trenches by CRW Nevinson](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/371986).


	16. Chapter 16

Jeremy pulled James up beside him and they drowsed for a while. Jeremy's hands stroked through James' hair, working through the sweat-soaked tangles. The afternoon sun striped warmly over his back and the sheets were rumpled under his cheek. 

Eventually James felt able to talk again, and he drew in a long, slow breath. "Something to eat?" he said. 

"Sure."

James sat up, scanned the floor for his jeans, and reached down to grab them. Jeremy hummed behind him, but when James turned back to look, he just shook his head and gave him a small, enigmatic smile. James shrugged and put his jeans on.

It was a relief to do it. He felt a little uneasy in his skin, like it was stretched thin, like it was half an inch from splitting open and letting his insides fall out. That floating distance during sex wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar sensation, and of course he knew what it was. But he hadn’t got there more than a handful of times, and the last person he'd felt it with had exited his life with a great deal of shouting on both sides.

"What do you fancy?" he said, yawning a little. "We could order in. Or I could make cheesy pasta."

"Does anyone in the world say no to cheesy pasta?" said Jeremy. 

"If anyone does, I've never met them," said James. They shared a grin, and he began to feel more certain of himself, enough that he didn't bother putting on a shirt, just left Jeremy to get dressed and made his way into the kitchen.

Cheesy pasta was an old favorite; he didn't need a recipe, and so he was halfway into pulling things from the fridge when he heard Jeremy call his name.

"What?" James called back.

"You own a beret." Jeremy appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing only jeans and the beret, cocked rakishly to one side so that his mess of curls spilled out from beneath. It was enough to take James' breath away. 

"It was a Christmas present from Oliver," he said, mostly on automatic. He could imagine Jeremy in Paris, wearing the beret just to draw attention. And draw it he most definitely would.

" _Really_?" Jeremy said, with a laugh. "Was he trying to get you mauled by a mob of oversexed undergraduates?"

"I think you overestimate my appeal for the under twenty five population," said James, trying to focus on the banter rather than the fact that he couldn't look away.

"Mmm, no, you're definitely wrong there," said Jeremy, and then, "Christmas _is_ coming up. What do you usually do for the holiday? Party? Just presents?"

"I don't usually—" James paused, aware that the end of that sentence was going to be 'do anything at all, beyond a mince pie on my own and a ceremonial playing of shitty prog rock Christmas music.' But Jeremy was looking at him with innocent anticipation, and he couldn't bring himself to crush it entirely. He simply couldn't. "—do a party," James finished. "But we could do one this year."

"I do like a bit of a holiday bash," Jeremy said, flipping the beret off and hanging it on the end of the kitchen door, which James knew he was going to find irritating, in a minute. It was just that he might wait until Jeremy was gone to actually do anything about it. "Could be fun," Jeremy continued. "Food. Drink. Music. Jumpers with reindeer on."

" _No_."

Jeremy grinned at him, unrepentant. "All right, maybe not. Who would we invite?"

"Hammond and Ols, naturally," said James. He couldn't believe he was actually entertaining the idea. "Stephen and his moppet of the moment. Wilman?"

"Yeah, Andy’d be thrilled."

James wondered what Wilman thought of this whole thing between him and Jeremy. Then he decided, firmly and immediately, to stop wondering. 

"Who else?" Jeremy asked.

James stroked a hand over his beard. "My mate Colin," he said. "We used to be in a band. His wife'll come, too, Susan, she's brilliant." _Cock,_ he thought. _I'm committed to this now, aren't I?_

"Your agriculture friend?"

It was dubious as to whether the term 'friend' actually applied to Oz Clarke, but James supposed he couldn't very well ignore him entirely. "Sure," he said.

"You'll have to host," said Jeremy, which only made sense, given that James' place was somewhat classy and Jeremy's place was a book landslide waiting to happen. "I'll bring food."

James must have looked as alarmed by this as he felt, because Jeremy grinned and rolled his eyes all at once.

"I'll bring food that someone else has cooked," he clarified, "and you can reheat it."

"That sounds eminently reasonable," said James.

"I've never been accused of being reasonable before," Jeremy said. "Not sure how I feel about it."

"Don't worry," said James. "I'm sure it won't happen again."

\-----

"I don't see what the big deal is," Richard said, toying with his empty cup. 

"The big deal is that I have to actually host a holiday party! I've no idea where to even begin!"

"It isn't rocket science, mate," said Richard. "Food, drink, a little seasonal décor, music. Although I suppose it's entirely possible that you could bollocks up the music part of that equation."

"Piss off," said James. He took a petulant sip of espresso.

"I'm only saying," Richard said. "Surely you can manage food and drink."

"Jeremy said he'd bring food – food that he'd bought, not cooked."

"See? That's a blessing already. And don't tell me you don't have alcohol."

James couldn't really argue that point. "What about décor, though?" he said. "I refuse to spend a hundred pounds on seasonal tat, I absolutely refuse."

"If it will make you shut up, I'll volunteer to make your shithole of a flat into something appropriately celebratory."

James opened his mouth to protest Richard's characterization of his flat, then realized the folly of that course of action and shut it again. Because Richard _would_ do a good job. "Fine," he said. "You're in charge of bedecking."

"I will bedeck the fuck out of it," Richard said solemnly, and that was ridiculous enough to make James laugh.

"All right, all right," he said. He took a deep breath. "Christ, apparently I'm throwing a party."

"The event of the century," said Richard. "I hope I'm invited, rather than just slave labor."

"Don't be an idiot," James said, smiling. "Of course you're invited. In fact…"

"Uh oh."

"Jeremy wants to know what sort of presents you'll be expecting."

Richard blinked, then sat up a little straighter in his chair. "Presents? You told him we do presents?"

"Well, the whole thing started because he saw that beret that Oliver gave me—"

"That was seven years ago, _and_ he was taking the piss. I can't believe you kept it!"

James couldn't quite believe he'd kept it, either. He had no idea why, other than perhaps thinking it would have taken effort to carry it as far as an Oxfam, whereas the hat rack inside his closet was much closer. "We're deviating from the point," he said.

"Are we?" Richard said. "What a surprise." James flicked a bit of napkin at him. "What is the point, then?" said Richard.

"The point is, I have to buy him a present! What on earth do I get?"

"Let me get this straight," said Richard. " _You_ are asking _me_ what you should buy your boyfriend for Christmas? You realize this is utterly ridiculous, right?"

James stared at him for a moment. "I've just realized something," he said at last.

"Yeah?" Richard said, expectantly.

"I don't want to talk to you any more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas party - how hard can it be? :D


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoorah, I've finished the Christmas party chapter actually before Christmas!

James spent the next few evenings scouring through likely shops. He had no idea what he was going to buy. It would have to be something old or something weird, or both; he couldn't stomach the idea of buying something banal like food or books or a new pair of gloves, even though he knew Jeremy needed them.

He'd probably picked up and put down a hundred silver bracelets by the time he found the pen. It was in a jumbled bin of things in a tiny antique shop; most of the bin's contents were metal of the kind that was almost certainly not real silver, but the pen caught his eye almost immediately because of the shimmering green color of the shaft and the way it was complemented by the silver cap. It looked well-used but also well-loved – he knew that would appeal to Jeremy, who liked his possessions with history – and the cap was etched with a pattern of climbing ivy. It reminded James of the ivy wall in the courtyard outside the faculty lounge, the place where he'd seen Jeremy for the first time.

He had to pretend his heart wasn't hammering as he bought it.

\-----

James had to admit that Richard was doing a rather good job with the decorations. Or, well, Richard and Oliver in combination – Oliver on the ladder doing all the work, and Richard supervising from the floor, calling out, "An inch to the left," and, "No, no, not that far. Back just a little bit." Oliver bore all of this with admirable patience; James escaped to the kitchen after two minutes to keep from screaming.

He was busily reorganizing the fridge for optimal access when the door buzzer went. He hurried over, feeling desperately undignified, but that was worth it when he opened the door to reveal Jeremy's beaming face. "James!"

"Hullo," James said, feeling happy but suddenly a little off-balance. He couldn't remember the last time that someone had greeted him with such unbridled enthusiasm. Even Richard's greetings always had a tinge of irony to them – which only made sense, given that they'd originally bonded over sitting in the back of all-faculty meetings and being sarcastic about the speeches. But it meant that Jeremy's happiness was a bit like a kick in the teeth. 

James leaned in and kissed him before he could overthink it. "What've you brought, then?" he asked, snagging one of Jeremy's many bags and tugging him toward the kitchen. 

Jeremy followed obediently, giving Oliver and Richard a wave. "All right, gentlemen?"

"All right," Oliver said cheerfully. 

Richard waved absentmindedly and said, "That one isn't even. Half an inch up."

Oliver rolled his eyes expressively and Jeremy was laughing as James took another bag out of his hand and set it on the countertop. 

Jeremy unburdened himself of the remainder of the bags, then took the opportunity to press James back against the cabinets. "You look gorgeous," he said. 

James had fancied himself up a little, in the spirit of the party – he wore trousers and a matching waistcoat in dark burgundy, with a pale grey shirt beneath and a wide striped grey-and-burgundy bow tie. The bow tie was either the classiest or the naffest thing he owned; he couldn't tell which. 

It seemed to be getting a good reaction, though. Jeremy slid his hands up over James' chest and tugged on it to pull him into a deep kiss. James tried to muffle his groan, mindful of his friends in the other room. "And you're shameless," he said, when he could pull away a little.

"Guilty," said Jeremy. He kissed James' jaw, bit at his earlobe. "I think we should cancel the party and you should take me to bed," he said.

"The party was your idea," James said. He allowed himself one last kiss before giving Jeremy's shoulder a gentle shove. "Now show me what you've brought. It'd better not be entirely composed of steak."

"Hmph," Jeremy said, feigning indignance. He pulled away and began opening the bags. "I've got some chicken things, little puff pastry with onion and bacon, a selection of crisps, cheesy dipping, er, stuff. Fried bites of something. And..." he reached into one bag and pulled something out with a wholly unnecessary flourish. "I've got a cauliflower."

"... a cauliflower?"

Jeremy nodded sagely. "For if a vegetarian comes."

James laughed. "That's your idea of appropriate vegetarian party food, is it?"

"They can dip it in the cheesy stuff!"

"Oh, well that's all right, then." James knew he was grinning like a fool, but Jeremy's amusement was contagious. "You'd better let me chop it, though, or you'll lose a finger."

"That wouldn't do. I need my fingers." 

The way he said it made James flush – which was absurd. He was far too old to be bashful about sex. He snatched the cauliflower out of Jeremy's hand. "Take off your bloody coat and get to work," he said. "Or you won't get to use those fingers until February."

\-----

Normally James didn't like to throw parties, in part because it was too much faff but also because he never knew quite what to do with himself. He was barely sociable at other people's parties, but he could get away with it there; sometimes he'd get dragooned into playing the piano, which at least meant he could stop trying to come up with interesting conversational topics.

But as the host, he knew he'd have to be there every moment – circulating, helping people meet each other, making sure everyone was having a good time. He'd never have a moment's peace. It would be agonizing.

Except… he didn't, in the end, have to do much of any of those things. He greeted people as they came in, took their coats, made sure they had a drink. He introduced everyone to Jeremy, because he knew that was at least half of why most of them had come.

And then once they'd been introduced, Jeremy took it from there. He was easily the center of attention, flitting genially from group to group, leaving charmed smiles in his wake. He made people laugh, telling various amusing anecdotes – but he also knew how to listen, how to get someone talking about themselves. He always seemed like he was paying attention. 

James admired him immensely and resented him only a little. He'd spent far too much of his life trying to be someone who fit in, then woken up one morning and realized that it was hopeless and resolved to be nothing but himself from then on. Sometimes that had been lonely as hell. His life would have been so different if he knew how to chat, how to make endless banal observations, how to care about football. 

For Jeremy it was so easy. For James, it had never been anything other than impossible.

He made an effort to let go of that sliver of unhappiness, and over the course of the night he mostly succeeded. In part because Jeremy as the center of the party meant that James could disappear at times, could gather up empty beer bottles, could escape into the kitchen to breathe and to warm up some new fried bits of… well, new fried bits, anyway.

And partly because Jeremy simply sparkled like this. Smiling, laughing, eyes bright in the warm glow of the holiday lights. When James joined him, it was intoxicating to stand so close, but even when they were at opposite ends of the room, James' eyes kept turning back to him. He was dressed simply, in black trousers and a comfortable-looking dark green jumper, but the color set off his mass of curls in an electrifying way. Periodically he'd reach out to snag one of the garlands that Richard had hung; the dangling bits were folded stars and doves made out of book pages, and Jeremy was so delighted by the idea that he kept showing them off.

Meanwhile, James got to actually talk to some of his friends. Colin had started a new band; his description of their sound left James a little horrified, but he was glad to hear that the breakup of their joint band hadn't left Colin entirely at loose ends. Susan was the president of a charity that provided music lessons to children, and since James was rather fascinated by their current programs, he was glad to be able to hear about them in some depth rather than only in passing.

Stephen arrived with his moppet and created a little stir, as he always did, this time by announcing that he had brought a collection of exotic alcohol. James left him to distribute it, then circled back around once the room had calmed down. The moppet's name was Alan, it turned out – James recognized him as the same one from the student performance – and he was trying to make his name in stand-up. James admired that, since the idea of making jokes on stage gave him mental hives, and he liked Alan even more as he only smiled indulgently while Stephen name-dropped six people within the first two minutes. He found himself hoping that Alan would stick around for a while.

Wilman, who James had never spoken to for more than a polite greeting, turned out to be great fun; he had good taste in music, was appropriately sarcastic about students, and had an endless supply of stories about Jeremy's school years, the kind of thing that James knew he could happily listen to all night. By the end of the conversation they were addressing each other by first names and James rather thought they could be friends.

At one point he came out of the kitchen and had the sudden realization that, actually, his flat was full of friends. After his earlier gloomy reminiscences about his lonely years, it was a surprise to realize that his life now wasn't so empty as all that. Some of these were people he didn't see often – Sarah, Brian, Jenny, Oz (who had been engaged in a discussion of wine-making by Stephen; James knew that he'd owe a favor for that later on) – but he still liked them and they still liked him. It was a good life.

(And now Jeremy was here, the center of the room, and James didn't want to let himself think about how it was a bloody good life indeed.)

\-----

Oliver and Richard were the last to leave; it was past one by then and all four of them were yawning. 

"See?" Richard said. "That wasn't as bad as you'd thought, was it?"

"Tolerable," James said, but he was smiling. "Cheers for the bedecking," he said. "Now go away."

Richard rolled his eyes. "I bid you good evening, gentlemen," he said to them both, and then dragged Oliver out the door while he was trying to echo the sentiment.

"I should clean up," James said, casting his eye over the sheer mass of after-party dross that littered the flat. "I should—"

"You should open your present," Jeremy said, sliding a hand up his back. "You should open it and then come to bed with me."

James huffed. "I suppose that means you don't want yours, then?"

"Are you trying to get out of it because you've bought me something a bit crap?" Jeremy shot back.

James smiled, but he had to admit that he was a bit worried that Jeremy wouldn't like it. "Come and see," he said. 

Jeremy pulled something out of his bag while James went to get his from the top of the closet. They settled on the chaise under the yellow gleam of the fairy lights that Richard had hung up. "You first," James said, nervousness making him want to get it over with. He set the thin box into Jeremy's hands. Jeremy grinned and ripped the paper off with childish enthusiasm, but his hands went slow and careful once he got the lid off the box.

"Oh, James," he said, reaching in to pick up the pen. "It's absolutely gorgeous."

James let his breath out all in a rush. "Yeah?"

"Yes," Jeremy said simply. "And— does it work?"

"Of course," said James. "I tested it."

Jeremy laughed, breaking a little of the breathlessness between them. "Of course you did," he said. "I don't know why I ever imagined otherwise." He ran his thumb down the shaft of the pen and then reached up to trace James' jaw, drawing him into a deep, thorough kiss.

"Can't wait to use it," he said, when he pulled away at last. "Cheers."

James knew he was flushing. "Mine had better be just as good," he said, taking the package. It had been wrapped with what was obviously an attempt at artistry, but somewhere along the way Jeremy had lost patience and finished the rest with an extravagance of tape. James started picking at the edge of one strip of tape, waiting for Jeremy to make that noise in the back of his throat—

Yes, there it was. James grinned and gave Jeremy a look.

"Do you want to go to bed this century?" Jeremy grumbled.

"Maybe," said James, but he abandoned his picking and settled for sliding his finger under a flap of paper and levering it up. He pulled the paper back to reveal a golden piece of wood, perhaps a foot square, sanded smooth. There was an image carved in it – he realized after a moment that it was a simplified version of one of his tattoo mandalas – and the carved spaces had been filled in with a translucent dark blue substance. In the soft holiday lights, James could see that the blue glowed faintly.

"It'll be brighter once it's charged up by sunlight," Jeremy said; there was a hint of anxiousness in his voice.

"It's incredible," James said honestly. He knew nothing at all about art, but this wasn't something as small as art. This was philosophy, pattern, made tangible. This was something of himself rendered sleek and beautiful. He ran his palm over the smooth surface. "God. It's…" He didn't look up, didn't know how he could possibly look Jeremy in the eye now.. "It's incredible," he said again. "Thank you."

Jeremy sighed out a breath; James had no idea what that sigh meant. But Jeremy didn't elaborate on it. "Come to bed," he said instead, low and husky, and James turned and kissed him quickly, and they went without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luluxa has made [some fantastic art for this chapter](http://luluxa.tumblr.com/post/171274330471/you-own-a-beret-jeremy-appeared-in-the-kitchen%22) \- go look now!
> 
> To get a sense of the art piece, you can see a set of instructions on how to make this sort of thing [here](http://www.instructables.com/id/Glow-table/).
> 
> I hope those of you who love the cauliflower enjoyed the cauliflower. Consider it my present to you. :D


	18. Chapter 18

Stephen's New Year's Eve party was glitzier than James' Christmas party had been, filled with all sorts of theatre people that he only vaguely recognized. Jeremy stuck by his side for almost the entire night, and James found that he liked that, too – liked being with someone rather than solo, liked the way Jeremy kept pulling him into conversations instead of letting him languish wordlessly. It wasn't so hard to find something to say when he knew there was someone to pick up the other end of the conversation, not so hard to make a joke when he knew that at least one person would laugh. 

At midnight they raised their glasses of champagne and toasted the New Year. Stephen's flat was filled with people kissing – some already paired up and some who seemed to have just met for the first time – and so James kissed Jeremy, too, kissed him under the glittering fireworks that rose over the city and then carried on kissing him for a while after that.

They walked home an hour later, through streets that were alternately silent and filled with laughing, shouting revelers. Jeremy was solid beside him, though they were both a little wobbly from the champagne and from having stepped outside the bright, effervescent bubble of the party. James had a three-quarters-full bottle in his hand, one that Jeremy had stolen on their way out, and they took turns swigging from it, fingers brushing as they passed it back and forth.

James knew, in a fuzzy and distant sense, that he was in trouble. That he was quickly reaching the point of no return when it came to his feelings for Jeremy. But what could he do? Not break it off, not deny himself even a second of their time together – that would be unthinkable. Every time he looked over, he'd see some new detail in Jeremy's face, some curl of hair or the corner of his smile, and all his resolve to hold something of himself back would crumble. 

Things were so good between them, so easy; James couldn't help but mistrust it. They spent too much time together. He'd never much liked being domestic, having another person in his space. People were always messing things up, leaving clothes everywhere and abandoning dishes in the sink for him to deal with later – or worse, doing the dishes badly. They were always cajoling him into doing things he didn't want to do, pouting if they didn't get their way (sometimes it was just about how to spend an evening, but sometimes it was about sex – James had learned how to be firm about that, but that didn't mean it wasn't difficult and awkward). Jeremy hadn't done any of that. Well, he'd had to be pushed about the dishes, at times, and he liked to hang his hats in odd places, but he looked devastating in wrinkled clothes and so James couldn't bring himself to mind the piles of them in the corner of the bedroom.

But he'd been _too_ accommodating about the sex. He took control, sometimes, but there was always something tentative about it, and most of the time he was content to let James drive things. It wasn't shyness, precisely; James could tell that there was something there, a moment of history or an experience or a relationship – something that caused Jeremy to be particularly careful. There was no way to ask, of course, and it wasn't as if Jeremy's enthusiasm for every one of James' suggestions was unpleasant. But he thought about it. Mostly he thought about it because he was wondering when the other shoe was going to drop.

Things like this always went wrong eventually. They'd start to fight over small things, start to prefer spending time apart except when pissed or fucking or both. They'd lose patience with each other's foibles. They'd start to think that each other's musical preferences were annoying rather than charmingly misguided. James would make bitchy comments about messiness and get a bitchy comment about how anal he was in return.

He looked over again and found Jeremy looking back at him, a loose, boozy smile on his face just visible in the pale light of a street lamp. _Oh, hell,_ James thought. _I'm definitely in trouble._

They reached his flat moments later; the walk up the stairs was a little more treacherous than usual, but they both managed it without falling over, which was frankly a miracle. Jeremy was laughing the whole way up.

James kissed him even before the door had closed. Jeremy groaned, leaning in and grabbing at him; the cold bottle of champagne thumped against James' hip. It was lighter now, but not entirely empty. Jeremy's mouth was warm and slick and as exquisite as ever. James wanted it to be an omen, a foretelling of the rest of the year. He could be happy with twelve months of nothing but this. 

They kissed for a while, weaving unsteadily back and forth. Jeremy slung the hand with the bottle around James' waist; James gripped the collar of his coat with both hands, holding him close. "What do you want?" James said at last. He felt suddenly determined to provoke Jeremy into expressing some preference, felt desperate to know what thoughts were swirling around in that beautiful mind. "Tell me."

Jeremy shuddered. "I— Can I—" He dipped his head to bite at the line of James' neck. "Can I eat you out?" His breath was shaky where it whorled over skin. "I've thought about it. Wanted it. Wanted to taste you."

" _Fuck_ ," James said. "Yeah, yes." He caressed Jeremy's throat with his thumbs, nudging his face back up so that they could kiss. "Let me just wash?"

"Mmm," Jeremy said, scraping his teeth at the corner of James' mouth. "Yeah. Please."

It was something of a wrench to pull himself away, but James let himself have one last kiss and then pulled away, casting a teasing look backwards over his shoulder as he went into the bathroom. It took only a few minutes to give himself a quick but thorough scrub, inside and out, trying to curb the flutter of anticipation in his chest. 

When he came back into the bedroom, Jeremy was seated in the chair by the wardrobe, naked, the bottle of champagne propped up on one knee in a manner that probably would have been jaunty if it weren't for the way he was looking at James, eyes heavy and lips parted. 

"Lie down," he said.

James went, noticing abstractly that Jeremy had laid out a towel across the bed, presumably where he was intended to put himself. He lay down, letting his feet dangle over the edge; the towel was soft against his chest and stomach. He folded his arms up and rested his forehead on them.

After a moment, Jeremy's feet padded the few steps across the floor. There was a quiet 'clunk' as he set down the bottle, and then a heavy breath out as he went to his knees beside the bed. He touched James' feet, ankles, calves, drawing his legs further apart with each caress. Then the backs of his thighs, soft scraping of fingernails over the skin. Then, _finally_ , spreading him open, Jeremy's thumbs tracing the shape of James' hole with something like tenderness. James shivered. 

Jeremy leaned in and kissed his thighs and the creases of his legs, and then at last he pressed a kiss to the center of him, just a teasing brush of lips. James was half hard already but the touch sent him red hot all over.

The soft kisses progressed to licks and the nuzzle of cheek, though never hard enough to scrape. James tried to hold still, but soon he was squirming helplessly, shivering, cock pressing against the soft fabric of the towel. Jeremy tasted every inch of him, not pressing in, just letting his tongue flick the edges of James' rim before darting away into a smooth caress. 

James wanted to whine when Jeremy pulled back for breath, but he barely had time to register the sound of a faint liquid noise before something cold and wet dripped down onto him. It fizzed, faintly, and he realized that it was champagne. He moaned. 

"Yeah," Jeremy sighed. He leaned in again, licking champagne from skin that was already trembling and over-sensitized, giving a soft, appreciative hum at the taste. James gasped, feeling the heat of his tongue against the cold of the wine, and found himself shuddering.

This time Jeremy didn't tease him too long before he pressed in, mouthing James open slowly but with confidence. Periodically he'd lean back and pour down a little more champagne, a slither of cold over hot skin, both soothing and intoxicating all at once. James was groaning, dizzy with the overload of sensation: Jeremy's huge hands, the heat of his mouth, the sticky remnants of wine and saliva dripping down the insides of his thighs. 

Jeremy slid one hand up and slipped a finger into him without lifting his mouth, so that James could feel both the blunt stretch and the soft caress of lips and tongue. Then another finger, and another, teasing between with rivulets of champagne. Jeremy sucked at him eagerly, a jagged gasp of breath escaping him with each movement of his lips; James almost felt as if he were being consumed, spread open like a ripe fruit and anointed with wine and eaten fresh until every bit of him was gone.

The towel beneath him was sticky with precome; each time he ground down against it, the feeling against his cock made him shudder but wasn't quite enough to make him come. At first he was glad of it, wanted to prolong the moment as far as possible, but he was getting desperate now, aching, heart thumping madly. "Please," he said at last – it came out in a gasp. "Please, Jeremy, please, fuck, I need to—"

Jeremy groaned, easing back. "Turn over," he said, rasping. James moaned at the loss of his fingers, but when he rolled over, he was rewarded by the sight of Jeremy's face, wide-eyed, lips puffed red, wet with wine and sweat and spit. 

"J— Jeremy. Oh, god. Please."

Jeremy pressed in again and took hold of James' cock with his other hand, stroking him slowly so that his hands moved in time together. James arched his back, trying to fuck himself on Jeremy's fingers, but Jeremy turned the thrust of fingers into a tease that left James shaking. "A little longer," he murmured. 

"Please," James said again, but it had no weight to it. All he could see now was the ceiling. "Please."

"Just a little more now."

James curled his hands into the sheets and tried not to whimper. This, he realized, was Jeremy indulging himself. Taking what he wanted. James wanted to give it to him.

"So open," Jeremy said softly.

" _Jeremy_." There were too many words in James' mouth waiting to come out, but he didn't dare say any of them, so he contented himself with Jeremy's name.

Jeremy hummed and leaned in, kissing the insides of James' thighs and the curve of his balls, teasing at the skin behind with a soft kiss. Then to the base of his cock, open-mouthed, tasting, drawing his tongue up the length of it. 

When he took James' cock fully into his mouth, the heat of him was almost enough to make James come immediately. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands to try and stave it off, at least for a little while, but Jeremy was making the most incredible noises, desperate, gluttonous, and James couldn't last. "Please," he said again, "please, Jeremy, I'm— I can't—" Jeremy moaned and pressed his fingers into James' hole, hard and sharp, and James came with a shuddering cry.

Jeremy held on until James fell back against the sheets, gasping and shaking. When he finally pulled away, it was only to scatter more kisses along James' hips and thighs; his mouth was sticky-wet with come. James was shuddering still, head swimming and muscles weak, but he managed to get himself up on his elbows. Now he could see Jeremy's sweat-damp expanse of skin, the flex of tendons in his neck as he gave James' knee one last kiss and then sat back, arching his arms up over his head. His cock looked achingly hard.

"Going to fuck me?" James asked. He was still stretched out from Jeremy's fingers, a little empty-feeling, and he knew it would be easy to just let him slide in. But Jeremy shook his head. 

"Scootch up," he said hoarsely. James scooted backwards on the bed and a moment later Jeremy climbed up on top of him, spreading his legs until he was kneeling over James' hips.

James didn't know where he wanted to look most, at Jeremy's flushed face and scattered curls or at the thick, wet line of his cock, as beautiful as any Platonic ideal that James had ever imagined. Then Jeremy was making the choice for him, because he curled his hand around himself and began to stroke, slowly enough that it was clear he was putting on a show. James swallowed hard. "God," he said.

"Watch me," Jeremy demanded.

James moaned. "Yes." He couldn't possibly do anything else, couldn't possibly look away from the push of Jeremy's cock through his fingers, the precome dripping down over his knuckles, the way he trembled with each stroke. "God." He wasn't too muzzy-headed to appreciate the sight.

"I want to come on you," Jeremy said, sounding breathless.

" _Please._ " The idea of it made James shiver. "God, please. Want to feel you."

Jeremy made an incoherent noise, tightening his fist, and he came with a gasp only moments later, striping James' stomach and chest with come so thick that it felt like ropes, heavy and strong, tying the two of them together.


	19. Chapter 19

Classes began again with an inevitability that was, well, inevitable. James gave his introductory speeches as usual, and before he knew it, he was settling down at a table in Prufrock Coffee waiting for Richard and the first shared coffee of the term.

He was halfway through the first double espresso when the door opened and Richard swept in with a bracing whirl of cold air. 

"Stebbins has been replaced," he said, falling into the open chair. 

"Hello to you, too," said James, but in truth he was grateful for something to talk about that wasn't his turbulent feelings for Jeremy. "Who is it this time?"

"He's called Moore, he's a billion miles tall, and he has the most improbable hair I've ever seen. And he stabbed himself with a spoon."

"The bottom end?"

"The round end," Richard said grimly.

"Sliced?"

"Stabbed. Literally stabbed. Spouting blood and everything."

" _How?_ "

"Christ knows. All I know is that I'm going to have to buy the cleaning staff a massive amount of whiskey this year."

It was an obvious joke, but there was something in his voice that made James look more closely at him. "You all right?" he said.

"Of course," Richard said, but James raised an eyebrow at him and after a moment he sighed. "Something's off. With Ols, I mean."

"I thought you'd sorted it."

"I thought so, too," said Richard. He didn't meet James' gaze. "But after Christmas… I dunno. He's not unhappy, I guess, but he's not happy either."

"Any idea why?"

"No." He scrubbed a hand over his goatee. "Maybe he really does want to leave."

"You've been together for ages," James protested. "And he's utterly mad for you."

"I used to think so." Richard looked into the distance for a long moment. "What d'you think I should do?" he said, and then he shook himself and said, "Christ, why am I asking _you_? You can't even solve your own problems."

James snorted. "Cheers," he said sarcastically, but he scrubbed a hand over his face. "You're not wrong."

"Mmmm?" Richard looked actually interested in something besides his own misery, which James supposed he ought to count as a win.

"Oh, I don't fucking know," he said. "It's almost too late. I'm going to be attached any minute now."

"That doesn't actually have to be a disaster," said Richard.

James leveled a look at him. "Of course it does. Do I need to enumerate the reasons?"

"No, no," said Richard, flapping a hand. "I'm familiar with the endless briar patch of your thoughts on the issue. But have you even considered not panicking?"

"I'm not panicking."

"You absolutely are," said Richard, and James had to concede the point. "Look, all I'm saying is that since you're— since you're in danger of falling in love with him, why fight it? Why not try and make something of what you've got?"

"I'll ruin it," said James. "I'll, I don't know. I'll fuck it up somehow. Or it will fuck itself up. And then what's the point?"

Richard looked at him for a long moment, long enough that James began to feel uneasy.

"What?" he said.

Richard just shook his head. "Forget it," he said. "Anyway, who's your Marxist of the term?"

It was a transparent attempt to change the subject, but James was too baffled to argue. "Lizzy Rockwell," he said automatically. "Second year, from Bristol, monopolized the entirety of my first office hours session. Since there was no one else waiting, I had to let her go on. And on."

"Oh, dear," said Richard, not sympathetic at all. His smirk sat oddly on his face. "Was there recitation from the text? Or the little red book?"

"Of course," James said. "It was highlighted and everything. I was surprised that she didn't try to gift it to me."

"There's always your birthday, if she can figure out when it is."

James shuddered. "God help me," he said, and Richard laughed, and everything was almost all right.

\-----

January passed in a steady grey wash of cloud. Richard remained not quite himself, but James didn't know how to broach the subject and so they generally kept the conversation light, swapping stories of meetings and classes and people they'd overheard in the streets talking about swingers clubs or bees.

James and Jeremy spent an increasing amount of time together, going out for drinks or a film or just having nights in, listening to music while Jeremy wrote in his notebook and James read the latest issue of some academic journal or other. Jeremy's taste in movies was a bit more explosion-filled than James' ideal, and his own taste was too historical for Jeremy, but they generally managed to find things that neither of them hated. James stocked rosé in his fridge and felt ridiculous about it, but didn't let it stop him. 

He knew he was like that old trolley, running desperately wild down the tracks. Ahead was the switch where he'd have to choose – turn it one way and crash into the both of them, turn it the other way and hurt only himself. He'd delay making the choice as long as he could, try to preserve this glittering happiness, but when the moment came, when Jeremy tried to slip away, James had no idea what he would do. Keep his dignity and choose utilitarianism and let go, or fight and rage and scream and make an utter fool of himself.

At the moment, the not knowing felt worse than any decision could possibly be. If he could just get a handle on things, he'd be able to prepare himself. If he could just know what he would do. If he could just know what Jeremy would do. Everything would be easier then. Everything would be simple.

\-----

They woke on a Sunday morning to discover it had snowed. Not the heavy quilt of a serious storm but an irregular scattering of patches, like hillocks of grass in an unkempt field. Between the two of them, they managed breakfast and coffee, then settled on the chaise in front of the french doors to the balcony, looking out over the street as faint whirls of new snow appeared and disappeared and appeared once again. A few bodies hurried past below, pupae wrapped tightly in wool cocoons.

"We used to get snow like this oop north," Jeremy said, letting a little of his accent slip through. "I remember how excited I always was. Building snowmen that were always wildly ambitious to start with and then using up all the snow in the back garden just for the bottom layer. Then I'd try bringing more snow in from the front garden, but I'd lose it all to melting in the house in between, and then I'd get told off. So my snowmen always ended up wobbly, with tiny little upper halves. Eyes made of buttons that I nicked from mum's sewing basket. Nose made of an old bit of garden hose, which usually made it look like an anteater."

James laughed. "Did you make it have hair like yours?" he asked, indicating Jeremy's slightly smushed curls with a gesture. 

"I looked like a dandelion at that age," Jeremy said. "Any attempt to imitate that would've had to involve more artistic ability than I had then. More than I have now, really."

"I'd love to see pictures of you as a child," said James. "You were a pink-cheeked cherub, I'm sure."

"I was a grubby little shit," Jeremy said, but he was smiling. "Some day I'll dig out one of my old albums." He gave James a nudge with his shoulder. "What about you? A snow-filled childhood?"

"Alas, no," said James. "Deadly ice was the best we could hope for. I think my arse-cheeks were permanently bruised from falling down twice a day for months at a time. When I went away to university, I didn't know what to do with all the cushions I'd accumulated."

Jeremy was doing his gurgling laugh. 

"I did take off some of the embroidery and tack it onto my jeans, come to think of it," James said. "Back in the days when that seemed cool and when being cool seemed worth achieving."

"Did it work?"

James gave him a wry look. "Of course it didn't work. I looked like I had my gran's dahlia embroidery stuck on my hip."

"It _is_ hard to picture, I admit," said Jeremy. "Then again, I rather like your current look."

"Yeah?" James said; he didn't doubt Jeremy's appreciation generally, but since he'd only just rolled out of bed, he knew his hair was more limp than coiffed.

"Yeah," Jeremy said. He set down his coffee and reached up to run his fingernails across the shaved side of James' hair and then up into the upper locks. "It's very… louche."

"Bollocks it is," James said with a laugh. "You just like saying 'louche.'"

"That, too," Jeremy agreed.

"Drink your coffee, idiot," said James, but he let himself lean into Jeremy's touch anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, edging back into actual plot! And next chapter will have Serious Plot.


	20. Chapter 20

They hadn't hit a record store in a while, so one Saturday morning as they lingered over coffee in Jeremy's flat, James mentioned that he'd heard one of his usual places was having financial troubles and might be a good place to find something interesting at a bargain. 

"Sounds good," Jeremy said, yawning. "Weather's warm."

It was – unseasonably so. James didn't mind it, since there was a lot to be said for not freezing his cock off, and it would be nice to enjoy a little of the weather with Jeremy, who was neither an aggressively outdoors-y person nor one to sneer about the existence of trees as if they were the equivalent of mid-nineties harem trousers. And the steam from the French press was making damp tracks down the covers of the books stacked on the counter, which Jeremy didn't seem to notice or care about but was making James go just a little bit mad, so going out was seeming more and more appealing.

The coffee lasted another twenty minutes and then they got dressed. James had brought his bomber jacket when he came by the night before; Jeremy gave him a heated glance when he slipped it on.

The shop was a ways off, but they passed the entrance to the Tube by silent, mutual agreement and kept walking. Jeremy spotted a flier for a gig by a band with a stupid name – Creepy Baby Head – and the conversation turned into an enjoyable attempt to one-up each other with increasingly ridiculous band name suggestions. A scoring system was devised: a scale of one to five for amusement value, then one bonus point available for incorporating something that was in view at the moment of suggestion, another point for a recognizable pun on the name of a band, and another point for the use of any word that the other person hadn't heard, but which the suggester could satisfactorily define on command.

They went through Art Stairs (dull, according to Jeremy), Scelidate Saturday (alas, James knew what 'scelidate' meant), Electric Light Solo Bassoon, Zebra Standing Very Still, Twenty Seven Americans With Three Cameras Each, Henry Crow, Tmesis Is Unbe-fucking-lievable, Caravan of Ice Creams, Gutturniform Gargoyle, Captain Kebab-heart, Lolly Lambition, Manfred Mann's Pavement Band, and – the mutually-agreed high point – Emerson, Thames, and Palmer, before arriving at the shop.

The warm weather had turned the inside into something of a sauna and James immediately shrugged off his jacket, handing it over to Jeremy without really thinking. Jeremy mumbled something about being a pack mule but he took it, and James was elbows deep in crates a second later.

It really _had_ been quite a while since he'd been here, and hardly anything looked familiar. He lost himself in the rhythm – flip, assess, flip, assess – and it was only when Jeremy nudged him with a knee and he looked up that he realized he'd gone through almost everything that was available.

"I'm going to waste away if we don't have lunch," Jeremy murmured. James nodded absently, eyeing his stack of potential purchases, then culled through them ruthlessly and slid a handful back into the nearest crate. He thumbed the edges as they went to the till and paid. When they went out into the street, sunlight hit him in the eye; it was coming from an entirely different angle than when they went in.

"Gahhh—" he said, fumbling a little as he tried to put the albums in his bag. 

Jeremy laughed. "That's what you get for practically setting up camp in there," he said. He tilted his head left and they turned in that direction. "I thought I'd lost you in the forest of terrible disco and I'd never see you again."

James huffed. He felt a little wobbly, some combination of squatting for so long, and the heat, and then the abrupt stab of the sun. 

"You might be the slowest crate-digger I've ever met," Jeremy added. "We could have been days in there."

James knew that he was only joking, but something about it hit him right in the stomach. Because he'd heard that word far too often – _slow_ – in the mouth of every boyfriend he'd ever had. Slow, they said, because they didn't want to linger, because the moment held no attraction. As if drinking wasn't worth anything but getting clattered, as if the only reason to listen to an album was to hear your favorite song. As if sex wasn't worth anything but the bang at the end.

"If it bothers you that much," he snapped, "you might as well have just stayed in bed."

Jeremy stopped walking, then jogged to catch up and stood in front of James until he came to a stop. "Whoa, whoa," Jeremy said, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

James thought abruptly that if the next words out of his mouth were 'You're being ridiculous' or 'Don't take it so personally,' or anything along those lines, he might actually shout.

"I'm sorry for being an arsehole," Jeremy said. "I didn't mean there's anything wrong with slow. It's just, you know what I'm like – I'm not good at it. Not good at being thorough and careful with things. I'm greedy and I'm impatient and I tend to, you know. Decide it would be easier to bang it with a hammer."

"You don't usually bang _me_ with a hammer," James protested, and then laughed despite himself.

Jeremy cackled. "Can do, if you'd like."

The tension was definitely dissipating now, and James was beginning to realize just how much he'd overreacted. _Fuck, I'm embarrassing_ , he thought. 

"We could go back—" Jeremy said, but James just shook his head. No need to compound the disaster by keeping them here.

"Forget it," he said. "Let's have lunch and then we can go—" _home_ "—to mine, and you can bang me with a hammer."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," James said, smiling, and once he'd said it, he knew that he meant it.

\-----

They kept things light at lunch, talking through James' ongoing research project and the most hideous sentences from Jeremy's most recent class papers. They were as bad as ever, with gratuitous similes involving aardvarks and monocles, a feeble attempt at an extended shaggy dog story about ghosts that failed on every possible level, a long poem rhapsodizing about the sunset over London Bridge which managed to be both trite and rhythmically dodgy. James had been dealing with a spate of especially stupid plagiarism and they traded stories about that for a while, sharing the most outrageous examples.

The walk back was a quiet one, both of them content to enjoy watching the people on the street wearing outfits of varying amounts of weather-based optimism. London was beautiful for its variety – though James wouldn't dream of adopting 90% of the fashion he saw these days, he had to admire its color, its daring, its love of taking whatever bits seemed interesting and cramming them all together. 

Jeremy, too, was beautiful. His curls were a little wilted from the heat of the shop but he looked utterly at home amongst the stylish cornucopia around them. The lines of his tattoo were especially stark now that he'd foregone the heavy coat in favor of a lighter jacket. James felt hyper-aware of Jeremy's essential physicality, the way he seemed to so fully inhabit his body in a way that James wasn't sure he himself had ever managed to accomplish. But he could taste just a little bit of it every time they touched. If that was what he could have, he'd take it.

\-----

Back at the flat, James hung his bag on the hook by the door and his jacket beside it, kicking off his shoes; he barely let Jeremy do the same before he turned, muscling him back against the wall. "C'mon," he said. "Bed." He wanted Jeremy with an urgency that was both surprising and not.

"James—" Jeremy's hands went to his waist. "I—" James kissed him, not sure if he wanted to hear anything more. 

And Jeremy seemed happy enough to be kissed, happy enough to rock their hips together and let James run fingernails up the line of his neck. He tasted like beer and chips and sausage, and his beard was a warm, pleasant scratch against James' lips. James mouthed along Jeremy's jaw, closed his lips around his earlobe and sucked. He knew this was a sensitive spot and he felt a rush of satisfaction when Jeremy moaned.

Jeremy's hands tightened on James' belt, tugging him in closer. "Christ," he said. "You absolute tease."

"Ah," James said, breaking off to murmur the words against the damp skin. "But I intend to deliver." He bit down gently and Jeremy gasped. 

"When?" It was breathless.

"Now," James said. "Come to bed." He stepped back without waiting for an answer, tugging on the thin collar of Jeremy's shirt to make him follow.

They fumbled each other out of their clothes. In the rich afternoon sunlight, Jeremy's pale skin glowed; James wanted to feel every inch of it pressed against his own, wanted Jeremy's breadth across him, heavy and strong. "Fuck me," he said, putting his hands on Jeremy's chest and pushing him towards the bed. "That's what I want."

"Yeah?"

" _Yeah_."

There was a bit of a tussle as they went down onto the sheets, Jeremy intent on returning to kissing and James just as intent on getting Jeremy inside him as quickly as possible. They settled the matter by kissing sideways as James grabbed for a condom and the lube.

Jeremy took them out of his hand and pushed him down on his back, throwing a leg over to straddle him. James moaned and clenched his hands in the sheets, thrusting upwards to rut himself against the hollow of Jeremy's hip. 

"Stay right there," Jeremy said, and James went still with a sharp in-drawn breath.

He had to watch as Jeremy put the condom on first, rolling it down with deliberation. Then slicking his fingers with lube, reaching down to tease at James' hole in slow circles before he pushed in with one finger. 

"Fuck," James hissed. 

"Good?"

"Very," said James, and Jeremy bared his teeth at him in something like a grin. 

He played with James for a while, twisting his fingers against the rim, pushing in just a little and then pulling away before he quite got as deep as James wanted. 

It was good – James was hard and wet and shuddering – and under any other circumstances he'd have been thrilled to stay here for as long as he could bear it. But today Jeremy was being _too_ cautious, _too_ slow, obviously trying to make up for his earlier gaffe by treating James with exaggerated care. 

At one level it was flattering to be so cosseted, to have the evidence that Jeremy actually wanted to please him. But at another level it was infuriating. Partly because James wasn't in the mood for softness, not now, but mainly because he was still annoyed at himself for being so oversensitive earlier, because he'd rather forget the whole thing. Like this, he couldn't help thinking about it, couldn't help remembering that momentary sting of hurt and the following sting of shame.

"Now," he said at last, abandoning his obedience and reaching up to tug Jeremy in sharply. "Fucking give it to me."

"James—"

" _Now._ "

Jeremy moaned and pressed his finger in a little deeper, then pulled back so that he could line himself up and shove in with one sharp thrust.

It was painful, a little, but the kind of pain that came with rough pleasure, the kind that let James ride the edge of control without quite dropping over. It was the kind of pain that meant he'd be feeling this tomorrow. "Fuck."

"Are you—" There was a strain in Jeremy's voice. 

"Yeah," said James, and then when Jeremy hesitated, "Put your back into it, man."

Jeremy gave a bark of laughter before he curled his hands tightly on James' hips and really went for it. James groaned and slid his hands up Jeremy's back, pulling him down so that his full weight rested across his chest. Jeremy kissed the side of James' face, his chin, and then at last his mouth, the kiss broad and sloppy and sweet.

It wasn't going to take long, not like this – James' heart was hammering in his chest and his skin was over-sensitized. " _Fuck_." Jeremy kissed him again and it was almost too much, too intimate to be mouth to mouth, and so he kissed Jeremy's cheek instead, his chin, the hollow under his jawline, his ear. Jeremy groaned and his hips snapped forwards, hard.

"Yeah," he said, "yeah, yes, just like that."

James mouthed at his earlobe, sucked on it, scraped his teeth over the skin and then licked along the same path until Jeremy was shaking. He hitched his leg up to get a foot on Jeremy's arse and urge him on. 

"Oh, fuck," Jeremy said, "fuck, yes," and then, "yes, darling, yes, yes," and James turned his face sharply downwards into the column of Jeremy's throat to hide his expression, covered the motion with a sucking kiss to the lines of Jeremy's tattoo.

"Fuck, James—"

James didn't dare speak, but he clenched hard on Jeremy's cock, shoved up into each thrust until Jeremy came with a long, desperate breath. 

"James, oh god," he said, kissing the top of James' head and then working a hand between them to curl around James' cock. James moaned as Jeremy began to stroke him, and it was only a moment later when he came with a gasp, his come thick and hot all over his hips and stomach.

They lay together in silence for a while, Jeremy still kissing James' hair and James shivering in the aftermath.

When he thought he could control himself, he tilted his head back and kissed his way up to Jeremy's mouth. "Excellent skill with that hammer," he murmured. 

Jeremy sniggered. "Shall I start my own handyman business? Assuming the use of metaphorical hammer translates to actual hammer."

"I don't that I'd go _that_ far," said James. "I mean, how would you decide what's the metaphorical shagging equivalent of using a spanner? Or a tape measure? Or a level?" 

"Well, there's copious use of lubricant either way," Jeremy said, waggling his eyebrows, and they both laughed until they were breathless.

\-----

That afternoon after Jeremy had gone (having begged off to go back to his flat and do some actual work), James sat on the chaise, listening to _I Can See Your House From Here_ and brooding.

The thing was, people talked all sorts of bollocks during sex – all the things they felt they ought to say. Cliché droplets of romance. Things they'd seen in the movies or in porn (although the porn-inspired dialogue tended to be more along the lines of 'take it, bitch' than 'darling'). Things that were poetic and dramatic.

And 'darling' – there was something inescapably camp about it. Jeremy wasn't particularly camp, in general, but it was impossible to be a queer man without even a tinge of it. Not genetics, but a cultural memory acquired by simple osmosis. It slipped into people's speech without their even realizing it.

And Jeremy would be leaving all too soon, only a few months now. That, too, was inescapable.

No, it hadn't meant anything. Not like what James wanted it to mean. It would be embarrassing for both of them if James brought it up, much less tried to hold Jeremy to it.

He'd just have to keep it to himself. Just have to pretend that he hadn't noticed, or, better, that it hadn't happened at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the actual fuck, James.


	21. Chapter 21

James was still brooding on Wednesday when he went to Prufrock to meet Richard for coffee. He'd managed to stifle the thoughts for most of the day, to focus on teaching, but now that he was settling into a chair at the back of the cafe with coffees in hand, everything was coming back in full force. 

He couldn't forget it – that whole effort had been futile even before he'd started. Probably he'd be decent at pretending that it hadn't happened, since he'd had plenty of experience on that front. But there was a part of him that didn't want to pretend, a part of him that thought maybe it _would_ be better to just get it out in the open and have Jeremy gently dash his hopes.

He couldn't deny that he had hopes, not anymore. If the word 'darling' had done nothing else, it had at least opened James' eyes to that fact. He was… emotionally attached. 

It had been a long time since he felt like this about someone, years now. He'd almost begun to think he'd lost the ability to feel it. Sex was one thing; he'd always been able to find someone he could stand well enough to fuck, someone to have a good time with until they both got bored and wandered away to other things. But not this, this… longing. It was ridiculous. It was— _don't say bourgeois, for fuck's sake, you're a desperate cliché already_ — It was banal. It was juvenile. It was unpleasant. In fact, it was bloody horrible. James despised himself for it.

He couldn't stop.

He ran his thumb around the rim of his cup, which was soothing but didn't, alas, unlock any particular insight. He'd come with the intent of talking to Richard about it, but he suspected that when the moment came he'd clam up instinctively. 

He'd no sooner finished the thought when Richard flopped down in the seat opposite; James lifted his head, not even sure what he would say, and then shut his mouth at the sight of Richard's face. He looked like he hadn't slept – his hair was a rough scrabble and there were grey hollows under his eyes. His goatee was ragged at the edges and the little bits that usually curled up were drooping.

"Jesus, what's wrong?" James asked, sliding the other cup across the table.

"Oliver moved out," Richard said, without reaching for it. He sounded devastated.

"I— I thought that'd happened before."

"Not like this," said Richard. "Usually he just goes to stay at Ren's for a couple of days. He takes a suitcase. This time everything's gone. All his clothes, all his fucking books. His bread machine." 

The bread machine was probably Oliver's most precious possession; he was always talking about some new recipe that he'd tried. It really must be serious if he'd taken it with him. 

"What happened?"

"That's the thing," Richard said. "I don't actually fucking know. I think it was Monday. We were talking about… something. Plans for dinner next week. And then he just went silent, and I asked what was wrong, and he shook his head and said it was nothing. And then when I came home yesterday everything was gone."

"Did he say anything?"

"There was a note. Just said he needed to figure out what he needed and whether we were it. Whatever that means. I tried to call, but he didn't answer."

"Do you want to try again?"

Richard hesitated. "Not now," he said at last. "He's stubborn as a bloody mule and if I press too hard now, I'll put him off." He scrubbed a hand over his face, then said, "Christ, James, give me something to distract myself or else I'll go mad."

"Want to get off with someone?" James said. They'd done it before, when things were off between Richard and Oliver. Gone out to a bar and made Richard flutter his eyelashes at every reasonably attractive twink within a five mile radius until one of them took him up on the offer. Which didn't usually take long.

Richard picked at his fingernails. "No," he said at last. "Maybe I ought to want to, but I don't."

"It's not a matter of 'ought to,'" James pointed out. Richard didn't look up, so after a moment James sighed and said, "Want to get clattered instead?" Richard nodded vigorously.

\-----

They finished their coffees and headed to a nearby bar that James had been to once or twice. It was only just gone five, but James could see that it would do no good for Richard to make him wait for a drink.

"Stake out a table," he told Richard. "I'll get the first round in." They didn't really need to stake a table, considering how empty the place was, but James wanted to get to the bartender first.

"Fine," Richard said, slouching off.

James went up and ordered a beer for Richard and one for himself, but before the bartender could pour out, he said, "Can you water down a little? Well, the first one a little and the second one a lot."

"Sure," the bartender said. "Bad news for your friend?" He'd obviously had this sort of request before.

"Boyfriend left him," James said. "So we're probably going to be here all night. I don't want him to get too sloshed too quickly. And I don't want to get sloshed at all."

"Got it. Probably can't keep it going if he comes to order, though."

"That's all right," James said. "I'll try and get most of the rounds in." When the drinks were ready, he tipped extra and took them back to the table.

"Took you long enough," Richard grumbled.

"Going to take me a bit longer," James said. "I need a slash."

"Oh, fine, fine," said Richard.

In the bathroom, James pulled out his phone. He'd been meant to have dinner with Jeremy tonight, after coffee, but that wasn't going to happen now. He felt guilty for being a little relieved by that, but at least it wasn't by choice. 

'Have to cancel dinner,' he texted. 'Oliver moved out and Hammond's a disaster and I have to get him rat-arsed immediately.'

'Jesus,' Jeremy sent back. 'Should I come? Could help distract him.'

James thought about it for a moment. Jeremy really was better at people than he was, so he might help James make less of a hash of it. On the other hand, it might do more harm than good for Richard to see the two of them together. 

'Best not,' he sent. 'He won't want to see anyone who's together.'

'All right,' Jeremy replied. The little ellipsis appeared on the screen, as if he were typing something else, but nothing appeared and James was getting a little worried about leaving Richard alone, so he tucked his phone back into his pocket and went back to the table.

"Talking to Clarkson, I suppose," said Richard gloomily, and James knew that his effort to be considerate had been in vain. "How _are_ things with him?"

"Oh, fine," James said, because what else could he say? 'He called me darling and it fucked me up and I think I'm in love with him and I don't know what to do.' He knew what Richard would say to that, and anyway, now was most certainly not the moment to talk about anyone's relationship. "Fine." He cast about for another topic and hit on one almost immediately. "Did you hear that someone punched Morgan in the face?"

"What?" Richard said, perking up. "Who? Why? Well, I can guess the why."

James smirked at that – Morgan was a twat, everyone knew that. Any number of people wanted to punch him in the face. "It was Sue," he said. "He made some remark about her latest paper and how Giles must have written it really, and then she slapped him. Which would have been the end of it, if he'd known how to let it go."

"Right," Richard said, because god knew, Morgan absolutely did not know how to let anything go. He'd probably go to his grave being catty about someone or other.

"So he said she hit like a girl, and then she landed one right on his cheek, and he cried like a baby. Going to have a nice shiner, I'm told."

"Brilliant," said Richard. "I'm going to have to buy her a drink next time I see her."

"Absolutely."

"Where'd you hear this anyway? Not from Sue, I assume."

"No, no," said James. "I had it from Stephen who had it from Noel, I think, and Christ knows where it came from before that. But Stephen always knows these things."

"Mmm," Richard said. James could see he'd lost interest at the mention of Stephen, retreating back into his head.

"Apparently no one's going to do anything about it, which is a relief. I think Morgan won't say anything because he's too embarrassed to own up to any of it."

"Of course he is," said Richard, his attention coming back a little.

"And the administration's keeping quiet as long as Morgan keeps quiet, because it happened off campus and they don't want the press. But I heard Phil say it was about time someone gave it to Morgan. He was against Morgan's tenure, you know."

"I didn't know that," said Richard.

"Oh yes," said James, and launched into what he knew about that story.

University gossip carried them for another hour, and then James started talking about his plagiarism problem, which carried them for a while longer. He was recycling all his best lines from the conversation with Jeremy, but it worked, keeping Richard laughing.

When he ran out of things to say about that, he asked Richard about his latest commissioned projects, which led into a rant about the terrible artistic taste of _some people_ , and between that and moaning about the price of coffee and beer and the state of young people these days, they managed to get all the way to closing time.

When the bartender finally kicked them out – with an apologetic glance – James slung Richard's arm over his shoulder. He had to hunch in a rather painful way to make it work, but Richard couldn't even begin to walk on his own. 

Hauling Richard and navigating the streets required enough of James' attention that he couldn't spare any for conversation, which meant that after a while Richard slipped back into a morose mood and started muttering about how empty his flat was going to be. James made appropriate humming noises of sympathy. They had to stop once for Richard to be sick into a bin; James was grateful that it hadn't happened in the bar, or else their welcome would have been distinctly worn out. Which would have been a shame, because he rather liked it.

When they reached the flat, James dug into Richard's pocket for the keys, let himself in, and settled his friend on the sofa. It had been a long time since he'd had to take care of someone like this, but his instincts remembered the familiar motions of it. A glass of water and some painkillers, which he had to urge Richard to drink immediately. Another glass of water on the bedside table for the morning. Pull back the duvet. Manhandle Richard into the bedroom and take off his shoes (at which point Richard promptly fell asleep and started snoring). Steal the phone out of his pocket and plug it into the charger. Roll Richard onto his side and pull the duvet over him. Put a bin beside the side of the bed.

It was Wednesday, so he made sure that Richard's alarm was set as well. He'd be miserable when it went off in the morning, of course, but he'd be miserable anyway, so he might as well be miserable and on time. 

When he'd done all he could, he took Richard's front door key and slipped outside. The door locked automatically behind him but he turned the deadbolt anyway and then contemplated the key for a long moment before tucking it away in his pocket. 

Maybe he ought to stay – but he'd seen Richard far more shitfaced than this and it had always been fine. And, truth be told, he wanted his own bed. There _was_ something eerie about the shadowed chill of Richard's flat, with dark hollows on the shelves where books had been. Out here in the street it was colder, and just as dark, but he didn't feel hemmed in by it. 

He walked home with his breath steaming great amorphous billows in the air. It had been an exhausting evening – coming up with an endless succession of things to talk about, watching Richard's face for any sign of sinking back into self pity. 

It made his own troubles seem small, which he was simultaneously grateful for and resentful of. Neither of which was a particularly nice reaction to have.

_This is what romance gets you,_ he told himself. _This is what happens when you love someone and they leave._ It was his future, too, but there was nothing to do about it now. He could only hope that when it happened, Richard would return the favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you it was going to get worse before it got better.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: idiots.

In the morning, there was a text from Richard waiting. 'Thanks' was all it said, but James could read a whole universe's worth of meaning in that one word, so he put his phone away without replying. 

After his morning class, he texted Jeremy to reschedule dinner. They settled on Friday, which James was grateful for because it would give him at least a day and a half to figure out what to say about… things. Words. Emotions. 

If he was even going to say anything at all.

He wasn't good at talking about anything too personal. He could lecture about philosophy for hours, sure, or argue about music. But none of that was an opening left for someone else to dig into, an offering to let them cut him open. The last time he'd done that was telling Jeremy about his ink; it had gone as well as could have been hoped, but then again, Jeremy had ink, too. Whereas with this, James couldn't help but think himself alone in his feelings. That would undoubtedly make things awkward. And what was the point?

Eventually James realized that he was overthinking it – unsurprising – and wasting his research time as well, and so with some effort he stuffed all of it into the back of his brain and got on with everything else.

\-----

He arrived at the restaurant on Friday night, the air a little warmer than the previous days but still chilly enough that he was grateful for his jacket. The days were beginning to get longer and the twilight was blanketing the streets in a wash of yellow and orange fading into red. As he reached the door, he paused – Jeremy was just visible through the thick glass of the window, at a table, his head turned in profile. James could have stood there and watched him for ages, admiring the art of the moment, but he knew it would be rude and creepy and ridiculous. Instead, he went in and joined Jeremy at the table.

Jeremy grinned, obviously pleased to see him, but the first thing he said was "How's Hammond?"

James sighed, torn between pleasure at the smile and depression at having to think about Richard. "A fucking mess." 

"What actually happened?"

"I don't know. _He_ doesn't even know, although I suppose that doesn't surprise me. Oliver's a cryptic bastard."

"You think he's just… being a cock? Found someone new?"

James took a breath, considering. "I don't, really," he admitted. "I mean, they've been together for ages; if he was going to just fuck off because he wanted some pretty young thing, he'd have done it by now. And he's not the type anyway. I've met plenty of the type, and he's not it."

Jeremy made a humming noise.

"No," James continued, "there must be some actual reason. Something Hammond's fucked up, perhaps, because he can be a cock at times. But Christ knows what it could have been. It didn't sound like they'd been talking about anything important, or arguing, or… I don't know."

He'd never found people easy to understand, so Oliver wasn't the most incomprehensible person he'd ever met, or even in the top ten. But he'd known the two of them for years now and they'd always been passionate, even when the relationship was technically off. They'd always circled back to each other, drawn in as if by some invisible elastic. It had never been anything final. Maybe this wouldn't turn out to be final, either, but Richard seemed to think it was different this time.

James hoped not. Richard deserved better than to have his heart broken.

The thought made him wonder if now was the time to bring up his own questions about what Jeremy thought of their relationship. He knew what the answers would be, but maybe having it all said explicitly would help muffle some of the worst of it. Then he could just enjoy what they had for what they had. It would be fine.

But what to say? It wasn't the sort of thing you just brought up. 'Did you mean it when you called me darling?' No, that would be humiliating. There must be another way – but how?

He realized suddenly that they'd been sitting in silence for a while, Jeremy watching him with a curious expression on his face. _Fuck_ , James thought. _Now I really do have to say something._ He opened his mouth, but the words didn't come. And didn't come. And didn't come.

Then Jeremy blinked, and said, "Oh, but I heard that someone punched your nemesis Morgan in the face." 

The moment was past; James was far too relieved to try and claw it back, though he knew that made him a coward. "Yes, apparently it was glorious," he said, letting himself grin. "Wish I'd been there."

"Who was it? Someone I've met?"

"I don't think so – it was Sue over in anthropology. I could introduce you, although… you might not get on." Sue had strong feelings about comedy, and James suspected that Jeremy's writing would probably not fit the bill. 

"You can congratulate her for me by proxy, then," Jeremy said. "So. Give me all the gory details."

\-----

On Saturday James went to the shops, and he was halfway between produce and bread when he was confronted by the sight of an entire aisle filled with ugly, lacy, red-and-white tat. He startled, then did a quick mental date calculation.

His first thought was for Richard rather than himself, and he dug his phone out of his pocket to fire off a text. 'This may be obvious, but did you know that Tuesday is Valentine's Day?'

Richard's reply came seconds later. 'Realized it last night. He's still not answering. I called all his other friends as well. I don't know what else to try.' And then, a second message. 'Cheers, though.'

James had nothing useful to say to that. It was ludicrous to assign himself any sort of blame for not realizing, of course – especially since he hadn't even known there was anything _to_ realize – but he could feel the miasma of failure beginning to settle on his shoulders nonetheless. A sense that he was a shit friend, not to have noticed the cracks beginning to form, not to have the faintest idea what was happening. Not to magically have the answers.

He forced himself to put his phone in his pocket and carry on with the shopping; it was a suitable distraction until he'd got home and sorted out the cupboards and then had the sobering realization that Valentine's Day applied to himself as well.

Should they do something for it? Did he even want to? Would Jeremy think they ought to? Fuck knew.

For himself, he rather thought he'd prefer not. It would be a pretense, one of those clichés that was a gesture instead of a truth. He'd had well enough of those in his life, and entirely lost his taste for them. And it was too late to make a dinner reservation in any case. Best to let it go. Wasn't it?

He stewed over it all evening, turning over the options in his head. He still hadn't decided by the time they saw each other the following day, and in his confusion he said nothing, and Jeremy said nothing. 

Tuesday passed entirely unremarked.

\-----

He met Richard for coffee on Thursday afternoon, unsurprised to find that he looked even worse than the week before. 

"You didn't manage to grovel your way back?" James said, passing over the second cup of espresso, though the question was more rhetorical than anything else.

"No," said Richard. "Didn't even manage to get him on the phone. Left a voicemail. Well, two voicemails. And one for Ren. I knew any more than that would be stupid and creepy."

"Yeah."

"Did have to hide my phone under the mattress, though."

"Sensible," James said. 

The word hung in the silence for a long moment before Richard blurted out, "I didn't think he cared about all of that!" He scrubbed his face. "I mean, he never used to. We did Valentine's, but it was always just trying some new kink, new toy, like—"

"Please stop," said James.

Richard rolled his eyes, but there was a quirk of a smile on his face for a split second, which James counted as a success. 

"And it's not like I don't love him."

"Are… are you sure he knows that?"

"Of course!" Richard said, but it came out a little hesitant, and from the expression on his face, he definitely knew it. "It's not like I don't tell him often enough."

James hesitated, then said, "Words are words, Hammond."

"This from a man who's dating a writer."

"So I know what I'm talking about," James snapped, and Richard blinked at him. James looked away, flushing. God, he was overreacting to everything these days. It was pathetic. 

"What's going on, then?" Richard asked. "Is Clarkson being an arse?"

"No," James said, and then, "Yes. No. I don't fucking know." He took a deep breath. "It's only the usual disaster. I'm in love with him and he's going to leave, he was always going to leave. And I'm greedy and selfish and I know I won't get what I want and I'm half an inch from throwing an unending strop about it."

"Mate…"

"Let's just leave it," James said, feeling suddenly weary. "Nothing to be done."

"James—"

"Leave it," James said again, and Richard looked unhappy, but he changed the subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you all knew better than to think that Valentine's Day would improve this situation, right?


	23. Chapter 23

On Sunday they went to an odd place that Jeremy had heard of and was curious about. It was not quite a museum, not quite a performance, but something in between and even stranger as well. It was a flat, several floors and a cellar, with rooms or collections of rooms set in different time periods from the 1720s to 1914, telling the story of a family over the years. It was staged as if they had just left a moment before, stepping into another room or out to the street, fleeing from visitors or just being plucked from their lives by some invisible hand. The table was laid, the meal half-eaten, and the smells of food wafted through the ground floor rooms. In the bedroom, there were slippers by the fire. In the parlor there was a stuffed canary in a cage, the room piped in with faint chirping noises. In some rooms you could hear murmured voices and whispers, the hint of activity outside from decades long past.

The place was beautiful and fascinating, but it felt rather melancholy to James, as if someone had been desperate to stop time, to set visitors inside bubbles of amber, distorting their view with honey-colored candlelight and the glitters of mirrors.

Or perhaps it was just that he was melancholy himself, that he would have loved to stop time back at the Christmas party a month and a half ago when he'd stood looking across the room at all his friends and at Jeremy, and he'd barely been thinking at all about how it would have to end. That he would love to see the rest of his life through this warm, softening light and forget about what was really outside the door.

Jeremy seemed to be entranced by the place; his hand kept going to the pocket where his notebook lived, as if he wanted to be scribbling already but had obviously decided that it wasn't appropriate to do so inside. He looked strangely at home amongst the fragments of history, like he could touch anything here and draw the story out of it with only the touch of his fingertips.

Eventually they reached the end of their time and passed out into the street. James blinked rapidly as the light hit his eyes, white and harsh and cold. 

"Back to yours?" Jeremy said, which was a bit surprising given that James would have thought he'd want to find a bench and start writing immediately.

"Sure," he said, somewhat at a loss. "Want to stop and grab some lunch to take back with us?"

"Sounds good."

They found a corner café and bought sandwiches and crisps, then made their way back to James' flat at a meandering pace. At first Jeremy didn't say much of anything, and James went silent, too, but after a long while Jeremy said, "What did you think of that place?"

James blinked. "A bit sad," he said, and then grimaced at being so honest without really meaning to. Still, he'd better go on now. "I mean, beautiful. Weird. _Good_ weird." Jeremy made a humming noise of encouragement and James searched for a way to explain it without incriminating himself. "But it made me think of some of the students I have, the ones that turn up having decided that they're going to follow Marx or Nietzsche or whoever. They might take the survey course, but it's a historical interest, not personal. They've already frozen themselves in some moment of revelation that happened when they were fifteen. It's satisfying for them, I suppose. To think they know everything already."

"Hmm," said Jeremy. He scrubbed a hand over his beard. 

"What did _you_ think?" said James, wanting suddenly to turn the attention off himself.

"Sad," Jeremy said, with a tip of the head to indicate that he was generally agreeing with James. "But not for the same reasons, I think. All art is sad, at some level. You try to capture something, but of course you can't capture it all. The very act of creating means putting some things in and leaving some things out, and the more you try to put in, the more of it slips out of your hands."

James couldn't help but think that Jeremy was talking about his own work more than the place they'd just been. He touched Jeremy's elbow, and Jeremy flashed him a grin. It was as dazzling as ever.

"I don't mean to be all gloom and doom about it," Jeremy continued. 

"Only gloom, then?" James said. "Or only doom?"

Jeremy laughed. "You could be the next Greg Lake, with lines like that."

James scrambled mentally for a Greg Lake lyric and went for the first one that came to mind. "Every day a little sadder," he intoned. "A little madder. Someone get me a ladder." Jeremy laughed again. "Do you wanna be the lover of another undercover?" James continued, cherry-picking another lyric from the same terrible, terrible song. "You could even be the man on the moon," he crooned, off key, and Jeremy stopped dead in his tracks to laugh for a good three minutes.

\-----

After lunch they sat on the chaise and listened to _Brain Salad Surgery_ , necking occasionally between pointing out ridiculous lyrics to each other and speculating on the circumstances that had led to their creation. Jeremy's mouth was soft, bristly-warm, and his body was solid and strong where it pressed against James' side. James wanted to fade into it, melt down into those kisses and down, down into the space he'd found all those weeks ago when Jeremy had fucked his mouth, smooth and sweet. 

When the record ended, he slid off the chaise onto the floor, running his hands up over Jeremy's knees to his thighs. "Can I?" he said, looking up to meet Jeremy's gaze.

"Please," Jeremy murmured; it nearly undid James completely.

He let himself look down, focusing on his hands as he began to tease. The soft bulge of Jeremy's cock in his jeans, not yet hard; the insides of his thighs, sensitive even under denim. Jeremy's breath was coming hard by the time James unfastened his buckle and button and zip, tugged everything off so that Jeremy was bare from the waist down, hairy and beautiful. 

James kissed the soft skin of his thighs, peppered it with gentle bites – not hard enough to hurt but enough to make Jeremy shiver. Then up, tracing the curve of Jeremy's balls with the tip of his nose and then with his lips. The smell of him was thick with musk, intoxicating and masculine. James reached up and curled his hand around Jeremy's cock, lifted it a little so that he could lick up the underside.

And suddenly he knew that he couldn't make that distant, endless feeling happen, not now, not like this. He was too full of thoughts, too full of wanting rather than being willing to just let Jeremy take. But that didn't mean this couldn't be just as good.

He trailed his fingertips up the length of Jeremy's cock, down, up again in slow circles that drew a shuddering moan. Then tasting him, licking between where his fingers rested in order to tease a bit more. 

"James—"

He loved the sound of his name in Jeremy's mouth, and so he rewarded him with a full suck to the head of his cock, soft and puffy and slick against his tongue. Jeremy was fully hard now, heated and heavy in James' palm. James sucked him in a little more, sliding his hand down in order to make room for his mouth. Jeremy's hand curled into his hair, caressing rather than pulling, and it made James ache. 

It was hot like this, hot enough to have him hard now as well. The scent, the taste, the feeling of skin. He wanted to lock this away – but of course he couldn't save it forever, couldn't make it set solid like one of those golden rooms. He'd like to think it was sweeter this way, sweeter for knowing he had to take it now, while he could. Maybe that was even true.

He sucked, slowly, soft and then hard and then soft again, drawing it out, taking his own pleasure as much as giving to Jeremy. Jeremy's palm was slick with sweat in his hair, or maybe it was his own sweat, or maybe it was both of them together. 

"Gorgeous," Jeremy said, and James would have flushed if he weren't overheated already. "God, your beautiful mouth." James gave him an especially sweet suck for that and Jeremy groaned. "Please," he said. "Please don't stop."

It was easy to draw it out, after that – their desires in sync. Slow, caressing, James pressing kisses along Jeremy's length and teasing the curve of his balls. Jeremy was dripping precome and James' mouth was sticky with it, bitter-tasting. Somewhere along the way, Jeremy progressed to simply moaning James' name, gasping with each suck. One hand was clenched on the edge of the chaise and his hips were twitching in half-stifled thrusts.

When he came it was with a sharp intake of breath, a faint tightening of his hand in James' hair. James drank him down, eager to take as much as he could get, and only when Jeremy sank back did he let himself pull away in turn.

"Christ," Jeremy breathed. "You're incredible."

James had nothing to say to that and so he merely kissed Jeremy's knee, rested his face against the skin there. He was achingly hard, shivering and desperate, but somehow it seemed impossible to ask for anything, anything at all. 

"Let me," Jeremy said, and it was a relief to let him pull James up onto the chaise and then sink to the floor, a relief to have their places reversed. A relief to let Jeremy strip him down to nothing.

Jeremy kept it slow, trying to match the earlier pace, but James wasn't going to last and he couldn't bring himself to care. He put a hand in Jeremy's hair, scattering the perfection of his curls into a wild mass of bramble. 

"Close," he panted, fighting not to thrust hard into Jeremy's mouth. "Very close." His whole body was hot, covered in sweat, and he felt wound tight with wanting.

Jeremy pulled off a little, but didn't go far. "Just the taste of me is enough, I see," he said, giving a sly grin. His breath was a soft curl over the head of James' cock. The statement was obviously a tease, but James couldn't deny the truth of it and he'd already moaned in agreement by the time he'd thought to smile instead.

"Yes," he said helplessly. "Yes. The taste of you, your skin." 

Jeremy groaned and dipped his head again, down, down. 

James gasped at the feel of it, the heat and the slickness of him. His whole body was trembling, fizzing with the electricity of arousal. "Jeremy," he said. "Oh, fuck, oh—" and he came in a heaving pulse of pleasure, gasping for air.

He held onto Jeremy's hair until he could breathe again, then slumped backwards with another faint moan. "Jesus," he said.

Jeremy smirked up at him, and James couldn't help but return the smile. His whole body was warm with the aftermath of orgasm, skin still shivering faintly. He took a slow, deep breath, holding it in for a long moment and then letting it out with deliberation. His muscles still felt a little tense and so he stretched his arms up over his head, pushing out until he felt something pop, then twisted sideways along the length of the chaise so that he could slump and roll his neck over the higher end. The plush fabric was soft against his bare, sweat-soaked skin.

"Will you—" Jeremy said.

"Mmm?"

"Stay there." 

Jeremy's tone was odd enough that James looked down at him, catching his breath at the intent expression on his face. "Here?"

"Right there," Jeremy said. "Just like that."

"Going to draw me like one of your French women?" James drawled, but he stayed just where he was, without moving, watching as Jeremy fumbled sideways and rifled through his jeans for his notebook and pen. He sat back on his haunches still half-naked but already uncapping the pen, and then he was writing furiously, his eyes moving between the page and James, back and forth, back and forth. James watched him for a while, but then the heat of Jeremy's gaze became too much and he closed his eyes. The mental exhaustion of the last few weeks was catching up with him, and so he let his mind drift, trying not to think about what was happening, about what he must look like. 

When he woke again, the sun was low in the window and The Moody Blues were playing softly on the stereo. There was a sheet draped lightly over him. Jeremy had his jeans on again and was sitting in the armchair, still writing, although now he was focused solely on the page. James watched him sleepily, enjoying his pale haystack of hair and the stark lines of his spidering tattoo.

Eventually he couldn't help but yawn, and Jeremy looked up sharply. His expression was briefly tense, but faded into amusement almost immediately. "Sluggard," he said.

"Take it as a compliment to your efforts," said James.

"Oh, I will." Jeremy smirked and set his notebook aside. "Does your appreciation of my efforts extend to dinner?"

"Mmmm, I suppose," James said. He stretched, and became aware that he was still covered in a large selection of bodily fluids. "Let me just—" He waved a hand to indicate the general situation.

Jeremy laughed. "I suppose," he echoed. 

James flicked two fingers at him and stood up, catching the sheet before it crumpled to the ground but not bothering to make any attempt at modesty. "Curry?" he said. "I should be able to whip something up."

"Sounds good," said Jeremy. "I'll get us some drinks." He disappeared into the kitchen; James gave a lingering glance at the chaise, wondering how many stains it would have and whether he'd ever be able to get them out.

_Worth it,_ he thought. _Definitely worth it._

\-----

In the morning, as Jeremy showered, James wandered towards the kitchen and thought about their options for breakfast. He stopped, though, at the sight of Jeremy's notebook, still abandoned on the coffee table. The edges of the pages were spread wide with use, forming a fat, rounded triangle. James stepped over to it and picked it up.

To see himself as Jeremy had seen him… 

What a wonderful thing it would be. What a terrible thing it would be.

He dropped the notebook as if stung, and turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The place they visit is real: [Dennis Severs' House](https://www.dennissevershouse.co.uk/). If you're ever in London and you have a chance to visit, do it! It's even weirder than I could describe and it's utterly marvelous.
> 
> The song with the terrible Greg Lake lyrics: [Still... You Turn Me On - Emerson, Lake, and Palmer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8VHHcd0M_o)
> 
> ["Draw me like one of your french girls"](http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/draw-me-like-one-of-your-french-girls), in case that doesn't ring a bell for you.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen [Luluxa's amazing art for the Christmas party chapter](http://luluxa.tumblr.com/post/171274330471/you-own-a-beret-jeremy-appeared-in-the-kitchen), go look right now. It's fantastic!

By Thursday, James hadn't heard from Richard, so he fired off a text once his last class was over. 'Coffee this afternoon?'

He packed up his lecture notes, and when he checked his phone again, Richard had replied. 'No, but cheers, though.'

'Drink, then?' James sent.

'Not tonight.'

James sighed. The lack of explanation was a clear sign that Richard was being avoidant; if he were truly busy, he'd have said why he couldn't come. 

'Coffee, Hammond,' James sent back. 'Or a drink. One of those two. I won't give up, you know.'

There was a long moment where the ellipsis showed on the screen as Richard typed. And typed. And typed. James half expected a diatribe about how he could mind his own fucking business, but when the message came, all it said was, 'Coffee, then. At six?'

'See you then,' James confirmed.

\-----

He was well settled at a table at Prufrock when Richard came slumping in. He set his bag onto the table and sat.

"I need another," James said. "Want me to get you something?"

Richard shook his head, then shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure. Get whatever."

James frowned, but got up and bought a pair of flat whites. When he came back, Richard was fiddling with something in his bag, but he shut the flap and moved it carefully aside as James set down the drinks. Something about it caught James' attention, but he couldn't dwell on it because Richard was talking already.

"Look, I appreciate the thought, but I don't really want to talk about it."

"Don't, then," said James, and he almost laughed at the way Richard's head snapped upwards in surprise. "Talk about something else. I just needed to assure myself that you weren't lying dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Ha bloody ha," said Richard, but his shoulders eased a little. "Well, let me tell you about what Moore did this week."

Moore, it turned out, had taken to sauntering through the art lab like a cock, crowing out his success at creating something not unlike a Calder mobile. The rest of the students were beginning to give him angry looks, but thankfully they were too aware of Richard's supervision to actually do anything unwise about it. And then, yesterday...

"So he does this thing with his hip, you know. Sashay. Intensely camp, in that way straight boys have." Richard waggled himself without getting up, but James knew exactly what he meant. "And one of the others, Palmer, had left the handle of the drill press out. I have no idea if they all could see it coming and just did nothing about it, and honestly I don't want to know. But he caught a belt-loop on the end of the handle. The press is bolted to the table so at least he didn't brain himself with it. But he ended up folded over it like a fortune cookie, squawking so loudly that Fatema heard it all the way down at the end of the hall and came to see what was going on."

"What did she say?" James rather liked Fatema, even though she was young and painfully enthusiastic about sculpture, because she did have more of a sense of humor than most students he encountered.

"She said she'd heard of students getting hung up on their grades, but this was ridiculous."

James groaned. "That's horrible," he said, but he was grinning.

"Yes, isn't it just?" Richard took a sip of his coffee. "Of course, I did have to give Palmer a bollocking, just for form's sake. But I'm fairly sure she knew how little I meant it."

"Did Moore at least shut up after that?"

"He did – for that class, anyway. We'll see how well the lesson carried tomorrow." 

James smirked at him, and Richard smirked back, but even as James fumbled for something else to say, to keep the conversation going, the amusement faded from Richard's expression and he slumped down into the chair. "I'm fucked," he said, with frank despair in his voice.

"Rich—"

"No, I am, I absolutely am. You think I don't know what fucked looks like? I teach _art students_. They are the very definition of fucked."

James had nothing to say to that, but it didn't seem to matter because after a moment Richard carried on anyway. "I thought I knew what I was doing." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought I knew… what it all meant. That being off again and on again meant he was, I don't know. Wild. Full of—" He made a vague gesture that James interpreted as 'desire to fuck.'

"And what's not to like about that?" Richard continued. "Making up is always good. Exciting."

James' relationship departures were always intensely final, but he supposed he could see Richard's point. He made a vague humming noise of agreement, mostly to keep him talking. It was strange, knowing this much about Richard's emotional life. They'd shared personal things before, of course, but not so much in so short a time. Perhaps it was just that neither of them had had a real crisis until now. Surely that was a positive thing. But it meant that James was completely inadequate to the role of confidant, even as he felt a flush of pleasure at being given it.

"Except," Richard said, and James pushed away his concerns. "People leave things, leave… bits of themselves behind. And then you realize you didn't know anything at all. Maybe he— Maybe it's too late. Oh, I don't fucking know." Richard looked down at the table, then up again. "Do you think you really know Jeremy? _Really_ know him, I mean?"

James blinked, taken aback by the question, and what came out of his mouth was "No." He ran a hand over his beard, ruffling it up and then smoothing it down again, trying to understand what had made him say it. "I think… I don't think anyone can really know anyone, in truth. You meet someone, you talk to them, you learn what they like to eat and read and listen to, you fuck them and you learn what they like there. But…" 

Because what, in the end, did he actually know about Jeremy? What he liked to drink and his favorite bands, sure. His easy amusement, his beautiful, beautiful cock. But not what he wrote in his notebook, not why he was so accommodating or so determinedly against learning how to cook more than bacon. Not what he was thinking when he had that one particular expression on his face. 

"The more you try to get your hands on things," James continued, "the more they slip through your fingers." He was thinking about love, now. About trying to hold onto something and someone that was too alive to stay. "And it's the same from the other side, too – you can't give all of yourself to someone, not like that."

"James—"

James suddenly realized that this, probably, was not what Richard needed to hear. _Yes indeed, May, you are completely shit at this._ "I don't mean that you can't know someone well enough," he said. "You can still love them without knowing all the inner nooks and crannies." _Maybe it's easier to love someone if you don't know all of that,_ he thought, but managed not to say it. "Look, you'll figure it out," he said. "He's not just fucking around for no purpose and he's not the bloody enigma code. You'll get there, and then you'll get him back."

"Yeah," Richard said. A thin line appeared between his eyebrows, and after a moment he reached over to rub the leather flap of his bag with the side of his thumb, absentmindedly. "Yeah. I hope you're right."

\-----

The weather went warm again on Saturday. After breakfast, James retired with Jeremy to the chaise, opening the french doors to let the breeze in, but after a while he realized that Jeremy's leg was twitching in a small, restless motion.

"Want to go for a walk?" he said, and Jeremy sighed.

"Yeah," he said. "Please."

James hadn't particularly desired the walk himself, but once they were outside, it was a relief to breathe in, a relief to smell something a little different from the sterile air of his office or the slightly-too-smoky air of his flat. 

They wandered at random, turning corners based on what seemed interesting and telling each other ridiculous stories about the buildings as they passed. 

This one, an overdone faux-Georgian nightmare, was haunted by the ghost of a vampire. ("How can a vampire have a ghost?" James pointed out sensibly, and Jeremy made a rude noise and started talking about the memory of places. That turned into a discussion of quantum physics, about which neither of them knew very much, and somehow fifteen whole minutes had passed by the time they reached the end of the posh neighborhood and came back out into the world that actually made sense). 

The next building to catch James' eye was an empty storefront, labeled with a tattered 'to let' sign; James decided that it had merely appeared, fully formed, and though it seemed like nothing to the two of them, it would magically become a junk shop just as a certain person passed by. When they went in, they would find just exactly what they needed. 

Another set of flats, this time stolidly Victorian, was deemed to be the future birthplace of a famous icon of British queerness. He would be a flamboyant but benevolent figure, bestowing a sense of love on the entire population much like a gay Santa Claus. Jeremy decided that he would be named Oscar Stardust, and James could hardly disagree.

They were thoroughly lost by now, but that no longer held the anxiety that it once had, back in James' early twenties. He had a phone – technology was a beautiful thing – and anyway, they were together. Jeremy actually had a sense of direction.

James watched him out of the corner of his eye, seeing the way his body seemed to relax the further they went. Jeremy wasn't what anyone would call graceful, not muscled and athletic in the way that Richard was, or lithe and sleek like any of the innumerable twinks in London's innumerable clubs. But he was big, solid, and more than that, he had a presence, a sheer physicality about him that made James admire him and desire him in equal measure.

He finally managed to look away when they reached a snip of a park down at the end of one block, three-quarters filled with sickeningly romantic couples and pensioners napping and children kicking each other. The din was considerable, but as they reached the far end, Jeremy touched James' elbow, drawing him off to the side a little. "Listen," he said softly, pointing up.

"Mm?" said James, but he tilted his head back obediently. "What am I listening for?"

"Close your eyes. Give it a minute."

James obediently closed his eyes; he was absorbed enough in the feeling of Jeremy's warm hand on his elbow that he startled when Jeremy spoke again.

"There. The birds."

Now that he knew what he was listening for, it was somewhat easier to tune out the rest in favor of the thin _dee-ichi, dee-ichi_ noise. Pleasant. Musical. It could have easily fitted into the through-line of some epic concept album.

"I hear it," he said. "What is it?"

"Coal tit," said Jeremy. James opened his eyes and fixed him with a look. 

"Bollocks it is," he said.

"It _is_!"

"It just happens to be a bird with 'tit' in the name, does it?"

"I can't help how many tits there are in this city," said Jeremy, and James had to laugh.

"I can't argue with that," he said. A flash of his conversation with Richard came back to him. _Do you think you really know Jeremy?_ "I didn't realize you were a bird person."

"I'm not, really," Jeremy said. "Not the kind that keeps a spreadsheet and travels all around the world trying to cross things off the list. But they've got a sort of personality, they've got mythology. You ever wonder why we have to say 'Good morning, Mr Magpie, how is your lady wife today?'"

"Well," James said. "I'm wondering now."

Jeremy gave his gurgling laugh. "Well," he said, mimicking, and then paused to tip his head, indicating that they should keep walking. James followed obediently. "They mate for life, magpies," Jeremy continued. "So if you see two, it's an omen of joy because they're together. I suppose it's the same impulse that makes us think that picking up a penny is a good omen – one small good thing means a larger good thing."

James nodded at that; it was a common enough basis for philosophical arguments. 

"But the reverse is true as well," Jeremy said. "If you only see one magpie, it could mean he's lost his mate, which is certainly bad luck for him, and therefore bad luck for the one who sees him."

"And you deal with that by reminding him of what he's lost?" James said, raising an eyebrow.

Jeremy laughed. "No, you idiot," he said. "You're just… manipulating reality so that he's got his wife at home."

"That's a lovely bit of egotism," James said. "To think we can say things and make them true." It was meant as gentle piss-taking, but he felt a tinge of cool melancholy settle over him at the words, even despite the warmth of the day. 

"Can't we?" Jeremy said softly.

James wanted to look at him then, but he didn't dare. "I'd like to think so," he said, and then, "I'd make Oliver less of a twat, for starters."

Jeremy snorted. "How are things going on that front, then?"

"Christ knows," said James. "I think Hammond's got some idea of something now, but he didn't want to tell me what it was and I didn't think it would help to badger him. Not yet, anyway."

"Hmm," Jeremy said. 

_What would you change, if you could?_ James thought. _What would you say to make it true, just like that?_ "What's the symbolic significance of coal tits, then?" he asked. 

"Oh, you know," Jeremy said. "Coal. Tits. Smut all around, basically."

"I should have guessed," James said dryly. He bumped Jeremy's shoulder with his own, and Jeremy bumped him back, laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richard is getting marginally less stupid... :D?


	25. Chapter 25

Mid-term arrived, and James slogged his way dutifully through the essays he'd assigned. He was beginning to think that the whole thing was more trouble than it was worth. Which was something Richard had been telling him for years, albeit with more sarcasm than sincerity.

There were always one or two students in the survey class that had truly interesting minds, and part of the initial impulse behind the essays had been to identify them early, to be able to point them in the direction of one of the more advanced classes (preferably his). And, of course, to gauge the progress of the rest, to make sure they weren't all missing the point entirely. Perhaps he should just leave them to it, let them ask for help if they felt the need – but despite all his moaning and sarcasm, he did actually care about teaching. Throwing them headfirst into Derrida certainly didn't qualify as that.

It was just that teaching wasn't particularly fulfilling at the moment. It didn't seem like he was reaching them, like he was _exciting_ them about the ideas that were out there. That was the beauty of philosophy – the new ways of thinking, the sense that the universe could be understood on a deeper level or, even better, on many deeper levels. But it seemed like all he was doing now was giving them enough to write five pages of passable regurgitation. 

Something needed to change – but right now he was too tired to think about it, too tired to do anything other than just plow on. The moment he'd finished the last one, James shoved the stack of papers into his bag and picked up his phone to text Jeremy.

'The eldritch horror of the red pen is complete. Come over?'

Jeremy replied immediately. 'I'll be there in half an hour.'

While James was waiting, he decided to text Richard as well. They hadn't seen each other in more than a week, and James hadn't heard from him, either. They were entering 'maybe he's dead in a ditch' territory once again.

'I've finished my stupidity,' he sent. 'Karaoke on Friday?' The karaoke itself still didn't particularly appeal, but if it would get Richard out and distract him, it was a worthwhile sacrifice.

'Can't,' Richard sent back, and then, 'Not a brush-off. Working on something, can't stop yet.'

James had seen this before and knew that it was the truth, so he didn't protest. 'Periodically remind me that you're alive,' he wrote, 'and I won't bother you.'

'Yes, mum,' Richard sent, but it was an agreement, so James left it at that.

\-----

"Are we keeping the karaoke tradition, then?" Jeremy said, from his position on the chaise, head resting on the higher end. "I know you think it's undignified and I'd no idea what I was doing on that stage, but I rather enjoyed it." He had been intermittently feeding himself pieces of fruit from the bowl balanced on his stomach; James was watching him as they talked, a pleasure more than worthy of essay-marking completion. Watching the way his fingers curled as he held a piece to his lips, the way his throat moved as he swallowed. The way his beard was becoming sticky with juice, which ought to have been disgusting but instead was just making James want to kiss it away. He had a distinct suspicion that Jeremy was doing this on purpose. 

"If we must," he said, because if he was prepared to indulge Richard with karaoke, he was certainly prepared to indulge Jeremy. "No Hammond, though. He's moved from moping into working on a project, although I've no idea what it is. A gift for Oliver that he thinks will win him back? Or maybe something angry and defiant to prove a point about… Anger, defiance. Despair. Fuck knows. But there's no pulling him out of it when he's like this. He's got to work until it's done. I'm surprised he can manage classes, to be honest."

"It's hard to picture him in despair," Jeremy said, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling.

"I know," said James. "Normally he's such a cheerful little sod. But I suppose everyone has something that will ruin them. Something they can't live without." He realized only after he'd said it that he wanted to know what Jeremy's reaction would be. Was there something he couldn't live without?

Jeremy made a considering noise but didn't say anything. From this angle, James couldn't quite make out his expression. But maybe it was better that he hadn't replied, maybe it was better if James didn't know. It was probably something literary, the works of an obscure writer. Probably a piece of art or an object from his childhood, a teddy bear in a little toggled coat. Probably nothing interesting at all.

And anyway if Jeremy had answered, he might well have asked James in turn, and he had absolutely no idea what he would say.

\-----

They met in front of Village at half eight on Friday. Jeremy was waiting under the street lamp by the entrance. James came around the corner and saw him, then hesitated for a long moment in the shadow of the building until he could control his expression.

Jeremy was wearing the peacock blue jacket from the market they'd visited back in the fall, the one with sharp-edged leaves and soft clouds of blossom over shimmering fabric. With his pale hair, he looked like a king, chosen by the divine to rule in its stead on Earth. The only thing missing was a thin circlet of crown – but the lamp light was doing a fair enough impression. 

James took in a slow breath, let it out again, and then stepped forwards. As he came into the light, Jeremy's eyes widened. 

"Christ, you look good," he said. 

James had gone for supremely tight black jeans, paired with braces over a blue button-up shirt, the top three buttons undone. Jeremy obviously liked the braces, because the first thing he did when stepping close was to curl his fingers underneath them, slide all the way up and then down again. "Could just lead you around like this," he murmured. "Take you where I want."

It was impossible for James to contain his shiver. "Depends on where you're going to take me."

"Into one of those toilets in the back, maybe."

James bit his lip. There was something about the intensity of the look in Jeremy's eyes that forced him to honesty. "I'd probably let you," he admitted. 

"And if I said fuck the karaoke and come back to mine?"

"I'd _absolutely_ let you."

Jeremy grinned at that and gave the braces a tug, pulling James in for a kiss. "Two shots and one song, and then I'll take you home and reward you."

James laughed and kissed him again in agreement, and followed obediently as Jeremy opened the door and ushered him inside.

The club was overheated already, and they had to push their way through the crowd, partly composed of hardcore karaoke lovers and partly composed of drunk queers. Of course, there was a significant overlap between the two; James wondered idly what the Venn diagram of the club's composition would look like.

They collected shots from the bar, Jeremy buying and then handing one over to James with a grave courtesy that made his heart thump wildly. There were only a few chairs left, dotted out individually, so they ended up standing against a side wall, Jeremy behind and James in front, leaning back against his chest. It was almost a relief for James to be facing away, to close his eyes and think only about the feeling of Jeremy's body against his own. 

The song choices seemed marginally less horrific this time – more likely it was just the influence of exhaustion and tequila – and James found himself moving with the music, feeling the beat fill up his veins and thrum through his muscles. He made a conscious effort to relax into it, and after a while Jeremy began moving with him. 

It was strange to be watching karaoke without Richard and Oliver. It had always been their tradition, the three of them. James had never even brought someone he was dating before, although that was mostly because he didn't _date_ , just had a series of sexual interactions of varying regularity. 

Here, alone with Jeremy, the mood was definitely different. Yes, they still laughed at the terrible singing and made sarcastic comments about the performances (half-shouted into each other's ears because that was the only way to be heard amongst the din), and yes, Jeremy's grin was dazzling and the droplets of sweat gathering on his neck were intensely tempting.

But the air was thicker around them this time, as if their corner of the club were its own small universe, insulated from everything else by a thin layer of shimmering haze. As if out there was reality and in here – with Jeremy's arms around him – was nothing but a dream. That it was a dream James would happily have stayed in forever made it no less disconcerting.

They watched for a while. Jeremy sang along, his voice scratchy and out of tune. James tried not to be charmed by this, and, as usual, failed miserably. Eventually Jeremy went back to the bar and returned with more shots as well as a copy of the book of available songs. They drank – and then Jeremy kissed the tequila off James' mouth, and the book was nearly forgotten as they leaned against the wall and kissed until James was aching. 

He tore himself away at last and grabbed for the book, thumping it into Jeremy's chest. "Pick a song," he said. "Because if you don't fuck me soon, I'm going to die. Or murder you. Or both."

Jeremy gave his gurgling laugh. "You sure you want me to pick?" he teased. 

"If it will get you naked," said James. He stroked the collar of Jeremy's blue jacket with his thumbs, feeling the silkiness of the fabric and the shape of the embroidery over the jut of his collar bone. "I was promised a reward, you know."

"What kind of reward do you want?" Jeremy asked, and the intensity of his voice made James shudder.

"I—" James said, because he hadn't really been thinking about the details. "I want—" And suddenly, he knew. He wanted it wild, wanted to counteract this feeling of unreality with something hard and sharp. "Make me feel it. Bruise me, bite me." He swallowed.

" _Christ_ ," Jeremy said, grabbing at one of James' braces and pulling him in, tight. "Yeah, I can do that." He looked down at the songbook. "Right, which of these is the shortest?"

\-----

The cool, dark air of the street was a cocoon, too, muffling the noises of the club and the distant, directionless hooting of yobbos. A block away from the door, Jeremy pushed James back against a building, leaned in to kiss his neck, wide-mouthed and wet.

"Jeremy—"

Jeremy's teeth scraped over skin and James lost whatever he'd been about to say. "Oh, fuck," he said instead. "Please."

He could feel Jeremy's smile. "Not yet," he murmured. "Come home with me and then I'll give it to you."

James shivered. "Yes," he said. "Back to yours."

There was a brief half-second of hesitation from Jeremy, but James didn't have time to do more than notice it before Jeremy pulled back, tugging on James' braces to make him follow. 

It seemed like they went from the club to Jeremy's flat in no time at all. Jeremy kept touching him, a hand on his elbow at a corner or a caress to the back of James' neck as they waited at a light. James was shaking by the time they arrived, trying not to stumble up the stairs.

Jeremy muscled him back against the wall just inside the door. James groaned, pushing back just to feel the way he was trapped. 

"Where do you want it?" Jeremy said. James shuddered.

"Anywhere," he said, but he couldn't quite escape the reminder of reality and so, reluctantly, he managed to gasp out "Not above the collar" as well.

Jeremy took James' hands and pressed them to the wall, his grip tightening on each wrist. Tight enough to make James ache. "Stay there," he said, and James stayed obediently even though the removal of Jeremy's hands left him shivering.

Jeremy tugged James' braces off over his shoulders; the straps fell to his sides, brushing over his wrists. James didn't move, barely even breathed as Jeremy began unbuttoning his shirt. "Maybe here," Jeremy said, trailing fingertips down over James' chest. "Or here." Another spot, under his nipple where the skin was extra sensitive. "Or maybe here." His hand moved down, stroking just above the waist of James' jeans. 

"Christ," James said. "Anywhere." His cock was damp in his pants and his pulse was hammering.

Jeremy made a pleased humming noise, but he didn't say anything, just pushed James' shirt off over his shoulders, tugging him away from the wall enough to let shirt and braces fall to the floor. Then he reached for James' right arm, pulling it up, pressing a wet kiss to the inside of his wrist.

He kissed up the line of James' arm, up, up, slow and purposeful – and then he reached the crook of James' elbow and took skin between his teeth, sucked hard. James heard himself make a noise, but he held still even as the sensation tipped over from sharp pleasure into actual pain. Then Jeremy eased off, let go with a wet, obscene noise, and suddenly the aftermath hit, the low throb of something that wasn't quite pleasure _or_ pain. Just feeling, just the inescapable awareness of his own physicality, his own reality, narrowed to that one small circle of bruise. 

"Oh," he said, which was wholly inadequate but also the best he could manage. "Oh, fuck."

"Yeah?" Jeremy said. He looked up and met James' eyes.

James moaned helplessly. "Yes."

"Want another one?"

" _Yes_."

Jeremy gave him a once-over, his gaze hot, and then he pulled James away from the wall and through the sitting room into the bedroom, pushed him down onto the cool fabric of the duvet. Jeremy clicked on the bedside lamp, then went down on his knees, pulling off James' shoes and trousers and pants until he was naked entirely. 

He ran his hands up over James' knees to his hips, inwards into the vee between his legs but not touching his cock. James arched into the touch, but Jeremy pressed him back down with a shove that made him moan. "Here," Jeremy said, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin of James' inside thigh. "Right here." He leaned in and bit down, sending a sharp stab of heat all the way up through James' body.

James dug his fingers into the duvet. "Fuck," he said. "That's—"

Jeremy grinned against his skin, opened his mouth wider and sucked hard. James tipped his head back, stared up at the ceiling as he shook with the pleasure of it and then the pain. When Jeremy finally let go this time, James' whole body was shivering uncontrollably. His heartbeat was thrumming through him and his cock was smearing precome over his hips and stomach. "Please," he said.

Jeremy kissed the bruise, licked it, gave it another little sweet suck. "Stay here," he said, and his touch disappeared for a few, aching seconds. James could hear movement, the rustle of something. Then Jeremy was back, rubbing two slick fingers against James' hole and then pushing in without any more warning. 

James groaned. "Yes," he said, "oh, fuck, just like that."

"Want me to fuck you?"

James shoved himself down against Jeremy's fingers, wanting them deeper. "Yeah," he said again, gasping. "C'mon, give it to me."

Jeremy gave it to him with his fingers for a long moment before he pulled away again. He stood, stripping off his clothes; it was a supreme effort for James to lift his head to watch, but he didn't want to miss it. The blue jacket shimmered in the light as it fell from Jeremy's arms. He was wearing a shirt underneath, thin enough that James could see the places where he was dappled with sweat. His cock was hard, obvious under his jeans, and then he was bare and James groaned at the beautiful sight of him. 

Jeremy rolled a condom on; the brief distance let James regain a little composure, but he was lost again as soon as Jeremy's hands were on him, pulling him up and then manhandling him into place so that he was kneeling, legs spread on either side of Jeremy's body.

"Like this?" Jeremy asked, and James nodded, gave himself up to it as Jeremy's hands tightened on his hips and pulled him down onto his cock in one swift movement.

It burned just the way James wanted it, that beautiful, perfect hurt that took over so completely that there was nothing left but to let go. He braced one hand on Jeremy's chest and closed his eyes.

Jeremy lifted him up, pulled him down again sharply. His fingers dug into the skin just above James' hips. "God, you're gorgeous," he said, voice rough. "I'll— I mean— Fuck, I can't—" 

"Don't stop," James panted. "Don't stop, don't you dare." Jeremy held him tighter, using his hands to keep James still as he fucked up into him over and over again. James flexed his hand on Jeremy's chest, trying to keep his balance and feel the movement of his muscles all at the same time. 

"Incredible," Jeremy said. "You're so— incredible."

James kept sucking in shuddering breaths, rocking himself into each thrust. His cock ached, but it was a distant sensation compared to the way his pulse pushed against the bruises, the way Jeremy's cock was thick and unyielding even though the rest of his body was trembling. James knew he was being demanding, was glutting himself on pleasure, but it was too good not to cling to. "Harder," he rasped out. "Fuck, Jeremy— harder."

Jeremy groaned and tightened his grip, slammed up with a sharp thrust that made James gasp. "Yes," James said," yes, like that, yes, _fuck_." Jeremy gave it to him once more, twice, three times, and he could barely breathe with how sweet it felt.

But Jeremy's muscles were tightening, body shuddering, and James knew that he was close. They both were. "Come for me," he said, "come for me and make me come."

Jeremy groaned desperately and shoved up into him once more, then let go of James' hip and lifted one hand to his chest. He scraped his fingernails over one of James' nipples, pinched it hard – and James sobbed out a moan as he came, cock entirely untouched. Jeremy lasted only a moment longer, his fingers digging hard into James' chest as he came with a sharp, urgent snap of his hips.

Time froze; James felt his body hanging in space, the only movement the throb of his heartbeat. Then Jeremy was pulling him down into a sweat-soaked, sticky embrace. 

"Christ," Jeremy said. "James—" James made a faint noise of agreement, but couldn't come up with any actual words. They kissed, sloppy and sweet, both still breathing hard, and then James dipped his head down to rest against Jeremy's collar bone. He felt shaky, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all and by the fading remnants of the high, slowly giving way to exhaustion and the type of pain that wasn't sexy at all. He breathed in, out, in, out – trying to focus on the rhythm of it.

"James?" Jeremy sounded worried, and he stroked a hand over James' hair in a way that was far too tender for James' composure. "Christ, did I really hurt you?"

"I'm all right," he said, and forced himself to look up. "Just— fuck, that was good."

Jeremy's expression slid into smugness. "Yeah?" he said, but it was clear that he wasn't expecting an answer.

"Idiot," James said, but it came out fond, and Jeremy could obviously tell because he got even more smug. James covered his onrush of adoration by levering himself upwards, wincing as Jeremy's cock slipped free.

"You'll have these a while," Jeremy said, and he lifted a hand almost absently to caress the bruise on James' arm, sending another shiver of sensation through him. 

"I will," said James, and he couldn't hide how thrilled it made him feel. He turned sideways, carefully setting himself down onto the duvet. It was sticky. He grimaced, knowing that Jeremy probably wouldn't bother changing it if he weren't prodded, but also wondering if he wanted to prod after his spectacular display of self-indulgence.

"Shower?" Jeremy offered, and James gave him a grateful smile.

"Yes," he said. "Please."

In the bathroom, James reached for a cloth and wetted it under the spray as Jeremy climbed in, then stepped in behind him. It was a relief to have a task, and he devoted his attention to the logistics of cleaning, soaping up the cloth and beginning to wash Jeremy's back. The soap smelled like almonds, masculine but not aggressively 'manly' like some of the soaps – and men – that James had known.

Jeremy made a contented noise at the touch and then yawned, bracing one arm against the tile so that James could give him a thorough scrub. "Cheers," he said.

"Least I could do after a reward like that," said James. Jeremy chuckled. "Do you ever switch?" James added. He'd been wondering about that, from time to time, and after being so demanding, it seemed important to ask. They'd fallen into this pattern early, and maybe Jeremy was just being acquiescent about this, much as he was about other things. He'd given James so much – James would give him this kind of pleasure, if he wanted it.

But Jeremy hesitated, his laughter quieting. "Sometimes," he said at last. "Not often."

His voice wasn't quite even, and James realized abruptly that he'd walked into a minefield without knowing it.

"Let me know if you ever fancy it," he said, trying to sound casual. He ran a soapy hand up Jeremy's back and into his hair. "I could be amenable." He yawned. "Certainly not complaining about it this way 'round, though."

Jeremy hummed, not saying anything, but his shoulders relaxed. Eventually James finished his job and handed over the cloth so that Jeremy could clean him in turn. Parts of him were still tender, but Jeremy was careful. 

They stumbled back to the bedroom; Jeremy flung off the duvet into a corner of the room and pulled out a blanket from the top of the closet. It wasn't quite how James would have handled the mess, but the blanket was clean and that was probably the best he could ask for. He let Jeremy tug him into bed, curled sideways to press his face to Jeremy's shoulder.

The last thing he felt before he slept was the low, comforting ache of the marks on his skin.


	26. Chapter 26

The bruises were still there two days later when James ran into Oliver.

_Nearly_ ran into, in the most literal sense – James was thinking about revising his syllabus and only at the last minute did he realize that he was on a crash course with someone coming the opposite way on the pavement. He turned half-sideways, sliding past; the other person did the same, and James was two steps beyond that when he realized that it had been Oliver.

He turned around, promptly had to dodge the person walking behind him, and stepped off to the side. "Oliver," he called, and then, "Oi, Ols!"

Oliver turned, his everpresent smile on his face, but the expression dropped when he caught sight of James.

"James," he said neutrally.

"Oliver…" James didn't even know where to begin. "How are you?" he said at last.

That made Oliver's expression ease a little. "All right, I suppose," he said, although it was clear that he wasn't. He looked as tired and sad as Richard did, with worry lines between his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth drooping. "You?"

"All right," James said, because this wasn't the time to air his own problems. 

They stood staring at each other for a long moment. Eventually Oliver snorted, then looked as if he wished he hadn't. "Well," he said. "Good to see you. I've got to get on, now."

"It's not all his fault, you know," James blurted. Oliver's face went blank, but James didn't let himself show any mercy. "Whatever it is he's done, he's desperate to fix it, but you won't even give him a chance. You're throwing it away." 

"Is that what you think?" Oliver said. "Is that what _he_ thinks, that I'm, what, blaming him for some imaginary slight?"

"Aren't you?" James said, bewildered. 

"Fuck off," Oliver said. "Jesus, James. Just fuck off." He turned away and started walking again.

"Ols…"

"Fuck _off_!" Oliver said, without looking back, and James had no choice but to let him go.

\-----

He stewed over the encounter all the way home. It hadn't made any sense. But nothing made sense anymore, not people or teaching or his own endless stupidity. 

He was missing something. The easy thing would have been to say that he was missing his old single life, the one where no one put him in uncomfortable emotional positions, the one where he didn't have to answer to anyone. The almost-as-easy thing would have been to say that it was all about Jeremy. But that wasn't quite right, either. 

It was infuriating – the whole bloody world. Why did it all have to be so complicated? It had been simple, before. Teach, research, drink coffee, talk shit about the rest of the faculty, potter over to Colin's place on a Sunday afternoon and make vaguely-terrible music in the garage. Find someone to fuck and go at it for a while, get bored of each other, move on. He'd always known what to expect. Why couldn't he have that now?

By the time James was walking up the stairs to his flat he had a horrendous headache, as if all the things bubbling inside him had joined forces and begun throbbing against his skull. He tried to focus on the good bits of aching, the places on his arm and his thigh that he wanted to remember, but it was a futile endeavor.

And then he turned the corner to the last flight of stairs and discovered Jeremy waiting at the top.

"Oh," he said blankly; he'd entirely forgotten their plans for the afternoon. 

A faint flash of hurt went across Jeremy's face before he smoothed it out.

"No, no," James said, fumbling to explain. "It's not—" He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the worst of the throbbing. "Today was— I just don't think I'll be very good company."

"Headache?" Jeremy said, looking more sympathetic now.

"Yeah," said James. "Bad one." Not the worst he'd had, but it was up there. 

"Let me come in," Jeremy said softly.

"All right," said James, too frazzled to argue. He was, frankly, intending to take painkillers and go to bed; if Jeremy wanted to hang around reading just because he liked the plush cushions on the chaise, why the fuck not?

He came up the last three steps and unlocked the door; Jeremy followed him inside, kicking off his shoes, but James didn't even have time to hang up his bag before Jeremy was taking it from him and putting it on its hook. 

"Change into something comfortable?" Jeremy said.

"I— okay." James abandoned any remaining thoughts of hospitality and went into the bedroom. He stumbled out of his clothes, chucking the lot into the laundry basket, and then pulled on a pair of worn flannel pajamas. Why he needed this when he was just going to get into bed, he didn't know, but Jeremy seemed to have some sort of plan, and the idea of someone else having a plan was intensely appealing.

He'd nearly sat down on the bed when Jeremy came in and then guided him back out into the sitting room. Jeremy had turned off the lights and closed the curtains, leaving the room in a soft, blue haze. It was soothing, and James sucked in a slow, deep breath as Jeremy led him to the chaise. He let it out again, just as slowly, and sat down. Jeremy handed him some painkillers and a glass of water, and he took them gratefully.

Jeremy disappeared for a moment; when he came back, he tugged James gently into place so that his head was resting on the high end of the chaise, tipped back over the edge. Then he put his hands on James' scalp and began to rub in small circles.

It felt incredible – just enough pressure to be a counterpoint to the pain but not so much that it amplified it. Periodically Jeremy would scratch lightly with his fingernails, drawing irregular shapes, and then he'd ease off and just stroke the buzzed sides of James' hair with his thumbs. Then down, lines of pressure across his forehead, a quick rub to the bridge of his nose, fingertips pressed into the points of his temples.

James thought that perhaps he ought to object to being so blatantly taken care of, but he had no idea how to broach the subject without being a complete ass, and anyway he didn't actually want to. It felt too good. So he stayed, breathing, trying not to moan with how wonderful it felt.

After a long while, Jeremy murmured, "You want to talk about it?"

James opened his mouth and then shut it again. He shook his head. It seemed like something of a betrayal to talk about it – not a betrayal of Richard but of Oliver, who wasn't James' best friend and hadn't given his permission to be talked about, not so intimately. Maybe James would have done it anyway if only he'd had some idea of what the whole conversation had even been about. 

Oliver had seemed to mean that Richard hadn't done anything wrong. Or that if he had, that wasn't why he'd left. But what else could it have been? Why did anyone leave, unless they were angry or they didn't care, or both? It was obvious that Oliver cared, which only left angry… didn't it?

Jeremy's hands didn't stop moving. "All right," he said, and then he was quiet again. James' headache was beginning to ease a little, from 'couldn't think' into 'could vaguely think and wished he couldn't'. He still felt muddled up, thick-headed. He didn't understand.

He _hated_ not understanding. 

The universe was huge and full of complicated things; he wanted to wrap his head around them all. Usually, interpersonal dynamics were relatively low on the scale of interest, but perhaps that was partly because he'd given up on them long ago and now they didn't much feature in his life at all. He had his friends and his work and that was enough. Only now everything had begun to go to hell, and the things he had, the things he knew – they weren't enough.

"Stop thinking," Jeremy said.

James sighed. "Easier said than done, you know." But Jeremy was right – he wasn't doing himself any good dwelling on it like this. "Tell me about your class this morning?"

Jeremy snorted. "Well," he said. "I don't know that I've ever heard the word 'segue' pronounced quite so badly before. Not to mention the use of garden shears as a metaphor." He squeezed James' temples even harder, and James had to hold back a groan.

"A metaphor for what?" he asked. 

"Being made to do the laundry as emasculation."

"Christ."

"I know. This is the same one who wrote about his sailboat, by the way. The one named 'Nauti Buoy.'"

James sighed. "Does he actually own a boat?" It came out slurred.

"Not sure," Jeremy said. "Could be merely aspirational."

"Mmm." James was beginning to lose the thread of the conversation as his headache softened even more. He was tired. It felt like a long time since he hadn't been tired.

"The other good metaphor," Jeremy began – but James never did get to hear what it was, because without any sort of warning whatsoever, he fell asleep.

\-----

When he woke, the silence of the flat told him that Jeremy had gone. His head was a little more silent, too – not entirely, because that never happened, but more than it had been. 

It was clear that, whatever this was with Jeremy, he was in deep. Deep enough to bare himself more than he'd intended, deep enough to be afraid.

Maybe they were all afraid, maybe that was the secret. He couldn't imagine what Oliver was afraid of, especially in relation to Richard, but that didn't mean there wasn't something. If so, James had done them both a disservice.

He picked up his phone and texted Oliver before he could second guess himself. 'Earlier – Not speaking for him. Just speaking for myself. And obviously ballsing it up.'

It was a long few minutes before Oliver texted back. 'Understood,' he said, and nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear James, omg, please stop helping.


	27. Chapter 27

They were just finishing a late, lazy breakfast at Jeremy's place on Saturday when James' phone buzzed with a text from Richard.

'Project done,' he said. 'Come and see it. Bring Clarkson.'

It struck James as odd that Richard wanted Jeremy to see it, whatever it was, but he was hardly going to argue against the idea of them spending more time together. He passed the phone to Jeremy across the table, although he pointedly looked at the napkin before he let Jeremy take it. Jeremy rolled his eyes, but wiped the butter off his fingers obediently.

"Interesting," he said. 

"Want to go?"

"'Course."

James took his phone back and texted Richard. 'Half an hour?'

'Sounds good.'

They spent the walk over speculating about Richard's project, coming up with increasingly ridiculous ideas of what it could be. By unspoken consent they both avoided anything even potentially accurate, or anything to do with Oliver, and focused instead on things like 'sculpture of Tower Bridge made out of toy buses,' or 'series of twee paintings of people sitting on the moon, which reveal on closer inspection that all of the people are wanking,' or 'Magritte ripoff but with a bucket of KFC chicken instead of a bowler hat.'

Both of them were laughing by the time they arrived at Richard's building, and then they were both wheezing by the time they reached the fifth-story flat. James noticed that Jeremy was pressing one hand to his lower back, as if he were in pain, but he didn't have time to comment before Richard opened the door.

"Cheers, gentlemen," Richard said. He looked more weary than ever, which James had half-expected given that he'd been working on a project and probably sleeping as little as he could get away with, but it was still a bit shocking to see. 

"Rich," he started, but Richard just shook his head and held the door open.

James went in, still worrying, and then forgot about it entirely – forgot about everything – when he saw what Richard had been working on, hung above the mantel of the fireplace.

It was… well, James wasn't entirely sure what it was. Art, certainly. 

The background was an immense thicket of branches. Not forming any particular shape, but spreading outward from a single swirled point. Woven within the branches were pieces of things, all different shapes and sizes and colors. James stepped in closer, peering, and eventually he could begin to distinguish them. A piece of pipe, a ticket for a show, a key. Shreds of printed paper next to a piece of handwritten paper, carefully folded into an origami star. A scrap of flannel and a scrap of brown leather pinned together with a bent nail. A piece of yellowed glass, a rubber bracelet, a condom packet with a picture of a pizza on it, labeled 'I Like Pizza, You Like Pizza, I Am Bad at Poems, Let's Bang.' Torn fragments of photographs, the label from a bottle of beer. In the center was a miniature sculpted thing that looked like a seashell made of cake, nestled next to a sculpted piece of bread. 

Many of the branches were smeared with paint or with something that looked like oil, although it had no smell. James reached out instinctively to touch it, to see if it was wet, but drew his hand back before he could make contact.

"Oh, Hammond," Jeremy said from behind him; James was surprised to hear something like reverence in his voice.

"You think he'll—"

"Of course," Jeremy said, and then, "and if he doesn't, then you've got the wrong idea entirely, and in that case I don't know what to tell you. But I think he will."

"I hope you're right."

James still had no idea what the hell this thing was supposed to accomplish, and the fact that the two of them were carrying on an entirely incomprehensible conversation about it was infuriating. But he didn't want to be an ass, not when Richard had obviously poured so much himself into the project, and so he merely leaned in, examining it in more detail. 

He realized that there was a thick pile of paper on the corner of the mantelpiece as well, and his eyes flicked down to look at it. The top sheet was hand-written in a tidy script, and the first line was obviously a title. "In Search of Lost Time."

Something clicked in James' head. The pages, the bits and pieces, the little shell cake which, he realized, could only be a madeleine. This was Proust, this was the story of their life together, seen through Richard's eyes. James had only a dim idea what the different things meant; there was the bread, of course, and the scraps of fabric, and the paint. But what was the significance of the piece of glass or the beer bottle label? He supposed that was half the point, that most of these things had no meaning to anyone but Richard and Oliver. 

"He's an idiot if he doesn't want this," James said. Richard breathed out, slow and shaky. 

"Thanks," he said.

"How are you giving it to him?" James asked, because after his encounter with Oliver he had no idea what the best approach would be. He realized, with a sinking feeling, that he might have ballsed things up with that conversation even more than he'd known. He ought to tell Richard about the whole thing – should have told him already. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. _May, you absolute disaster._ He kept his face turned towards the artwork, trying to control his flush of shame. _Why can't you ever just keep your mouth shut?_

"I'm going to leave him a message that it's here and that I'll be away for the next few days. He can come and look, or not."

"You want to stay at mine?" said James.

"I— yeah. Cheers."

The gratitude in Richard's voice did a little to ease James' self-recriminations. In this, at least, he could do something truly helpful. "Come whenever you want," he said, and he was able to turn away from the art at last.

"A couple of hours, then," Richard said. "I just need to pack up and—" He shrugged, but it didn't take a genius to understand what he wasn't saying. 

"Whenever," James said again. Richard favored him with something like a smile.

"Go and make up my luxurious hotel suite, then, bellboy."

James flicked two fingers at him, but he let Richard lead them out and only when the door had closed behind them did he share a glance with Jeremy.

Jeremy sighed, then shook his head and said nothing. James tipped his head towards the stairs and they went down together. At the bottom, Jeremy picked a direction and they began to walk. James followed, his mind whirring. He couldn't stop thinking about Richard's art piece, so intimate and raw in a way that James doubted he'd ever be able to achieve. Still, he wondered – what would it be like to have such a lifetime of memories with Jeremy?

Maybe… maybe he should ask Jeremy to stay. It would be a risk, it would be painful to put himself out there. But what if there was even a sliver of hope? Wouldn't it be worth it?

Except that when he looked over, he found there was a distance between them. Physical – a matter of merely an inch more than usual – but also not physical at all. Jeremy's face was closed up, expressionless. James didn't know what to make of it. 

Where was his smile? Where were his droplets of glittering truths? That moment, last week, in the shower – Jeremy had said no more than he had to; there was a story there. James wanted to know it, but he didn't dare push. Usually he didn't have to push.

There was something off, he knew it. And then there was the matter of his conversation with Oliver; if he'd done permanent damage there, he doubted Jeremy would want to have anything to do with him at all.

_It's too soon,_ James thought. _Too soon to ask him. Surely I have a few more months to see what happens, to make him want to stay._

"Come back with me?" he said. "If only to save me from Hammond's moping."

Jeremy snorted, and something in his face opened a little. "Only if we can listen to the Moody Blues," he said, teasing.

"Ugh," James said, but he couldn't help smiling. "I suppose. I just want you to know that I am a generous and gracious soul."

"Of course," Jeremy said, with that same grave courtesy from the bar at karaoke, although he was smiling slyly. "I wouldn't dream of suggesting otherwise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can have [some of those condoms](https://www.sayitwithacondom.com/condom-outreach-campaigns/best-sellers/i-like-pizza-condom) for your very own. :D


	28. Chapter 28

Richard showed up around six and rang the buzzer with his usual overlong press.

"You don't have to do it like that, you pillock," James said, opening the door. 

"'Course I do," Richard said, in his best cheeky manner. He was effortlessly toting a duffel that probably weighed almost as much as he did. He looked past James to where Jeremy was lounging on the chaise. "All right, Jez?"

The nickname made James momentarily irritated; it spoke of a familiarity that he didn't want to share. He squelched the feeling firmly. He didn't even _like_ 'Jez,' as a shortening. Richard could have it.

"Yeah," Jeremy said. "You? Sent it?"

"Yeah," Richard said, slinging the duffel off under the armchair, and then, "Christ, I need a distraction. Can we smoke up?"

James looked at Jeremy, raising an eyebrow. Jeremy shrugged. "All right by me."

"Sure," James said, because it meant he'd get to watch Jeremy go lazy and loose beside him, get to breathe in the smoke that he had breathed out. _Poetic twaddle,_ he thought, but it would be bloody gorgeous nonetheless. "You order dinner," he told Richard firmly. 

"Greedy bastard," Richard said, but he was perking up at the reemergence of their usual dynamic – something that had been sorely absent in the last month. James hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.

"My supply of herbs says otherwise," he said.

"Oh, fine," said Richard. "What do you want, then? Don't say fish and chips – I know Stebbins is still working there."

"How the fuck do you know that?" Jeremy said. "Do you pass by twice a week just to scope it out?"

"I have _sources_ ," said Richard. He slumped into the armchair. "I mean, in this case the source was a student, true – Amelia, from last term. I think you met her at the art show. Anyway, she stopped by my office hours to ask me something and happened to mention that she'd seen him there."

"Because she knows that you think he's a terrifying disaster? Isn't that a little un-subtle?" James asked. He crossed to the bookcase and pulled down one of the heavier volumes, flipping it open to reveal the hidden compartment inside.

"Everyone knows who I think is a terrifying disaster," said Richard. "I have to make it clear or otherwise they might corrupt the others with their safety practices, or lack thereof." And then, as he caught sight of the book, "Oh my god, is that where you keep it?"

"If I come out in the morning and it's all gone, I will set your mustache on fire," said James.

Jeremy snorted and sat up to take the weed out of his hand. "Not if we smoke it all tonight."

"If you think we can smoke all of this tonight, I will suspect that you've had quite a bit already."

"That sounds," Richard said, "distinctly like a challenge."

\-----

Two hours later, the balcony table was littered with beer bottles and the remains of three cartons of burgers and chips: Richard's nearly picked clean, leaving only salt, while James' few lingering chips were spattered with vinegar and Jeremy's were covered in bits of melted gjetost – a cheese that James was beginning to regret introducing him to, since that meant he had to keep some around all the time. Still, it was excellent in a cheesy pasta sauce, and he got to watch Jeremy lick his fingers.

"So then what happened?" Jeremy asked, slumping back a little further in his chair.

"Well," James said, picking up the thread of the story again. "Morgan said, 'May, get me one while you're up.' Not even a question."

"Peremptory," Jeremy said with disapproval. He took another drag. 

"What a twat," Richard added.

James nodded. "So I got one of the ones about grade inflation for me and then I grabbed him a packet, too… the sexual harassment one."

Richard sputtered out a laugh, and Jeremy grinned.

"I tossed it to him – Carr barely even ducked when it went over his head – and Morgan caught it just before it smacked him in the face."

"Pity," said Jeremy.

"Yes," James agreed. "He raged at me about that for a while before he even looked at it, and then he went on for ages after that about how stupid I was for getting the wrong thing. I'd have been hacked off if it weren't for the fact that Norton was watching him with this look on his face – you know, the look that says 'I'm gathering material for your personnel file.'"

Richard cackled. "Brilliant."

"Then, of course, I obediently got Morgan the right packet and carried it over…"

"But?" Jeremy prompted.

"I tripped," James said, as solemnly as he could manage. "And, tragically, I dropped the corner of the envelope right onto his plums."

Richard was laughing hysterically by now. "Did it shut him up?" he wheezed.

"For about a minute," James said. "Not as long as I would have liked."

"For Morgan, that's an eternity," said Richard, trying to catch his breath. "He— he hasn't stopped running his mouth since he was in the fucking womb."

James made a disgusted noise. "Please don't make me think about that image ever again."

Oh his other side, Jeremy grinned, loose and easy. "What, you don't want to dream about it? I mean, maybe it indicates a subconscious Freudian—" 

" _Anyway_ ," James said, "inevitably, he asked me why I'd tripped."

"And you said…"

"'Because,'" James proclaimed, "'I am an arse.'"

Both Jeremy and Richard burst out laughing. 

"You did not," Richard said.

"I absolutely did. He's called me that often enough that he could hardly argue." 

"Unbelievable."

James savored the expression on Jeremy's face, the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed. It was as beautiful a thing as James had ever seen.

Which meant, of course, that Richard had to give his chair a swift kick to catch his attention.

"What?"

"I need a slash, you imbecile," Richard said, wedging his joint into the fold of his carton as a makeshift ashtray. "Thinking about you getting Morgan in the plums has made all my innards go wonky with delight."

James rolled his eyes, but he leaned sideways so that Richard could clamber over him. A moment later the bathroom door clicked shut; James met Jeremy's gaze with a raised eyebrow and decided he couldn't keep himself from flirting a little.

"What shall we do while he's gone?" he said, picking up one of his chips and licking at the end of it in a hopefully-seductive manner. It worked, judging by the way Jeremy's cheeks went just the faintest bit pinker.

"Tease," he said. "Don't you dare get me hot and bothered while Hammond's here."

"Can't I even do this?" James said, swallowing the chip and then sucking in a breath of smoke from his joint, holding it, leaning forward until his mouth was half an inch from Jeremy's. Jeremy groaned softly and sat up, leaned in, crossing the last bit of space between them and pressing their mouths together so that he could breathe in as James breathed out. The touch of his mouth was exquisite, edging past exquisite when he turned it into something like a caress.

All too soon, he pulled away and tilted his head back to breathe out. James let himself watch the long line of his neck. Jeremy looked down, licked his lips. "Christ," he said, low and intense. "You've no idea how much I—"

The bathroom door clicked open, and Jeremy cut himself off. James quirked an eyebrow at him, but Jeremy shook his head and sat back firmly. James sighed and did the same, settling into his chair just in time for Richard to emerge and force him to lean sideways again. 

"Did you get much shit for it?" Richard said, picking up his joint again. "Morgan's plums, I mean."

"Not at all," said James. "I mean, Norton saw the whole thing, how my foot had caught the chair leg. Totally inadvertent."

"Of course," Jeremy said.

Richard took another hit. "I like Norton," he said meditatively. "He's not a complete shit. Which is more than you can say for Ross."

"Which one's Ross again?" said Jeremy.

"Dean of Fine Arts," Richard said. "Complete wanker."

"Oh, right," Jeremy said. "Technically my zone, I suppose – I just haven't bothered to meet him. Why's he a wanker?"

"Well…"

\-----

This went on for some time. Jeremy seemed genuinely interested in Richard's commentary on various parts of the administration. Especially when they were accompanied by graphic arm waving, although James had to intervene a couple of times lest Richard set someone's hair on fire, either James' or his own.

Eventually, although he clearly hadn't run out of people to complain about, Richard ran out of energy to complain with. He fell asleep mid-sentence. 

"You twat," James said to him, but he kept his voice down. 

Jeremy touched his elbow. "What now?" 

"Think we can haul him inside?"

"No," Jeremy said.

James laughed. "Fair enough. Leave him until we get cold out here, I suppose, and then we'll give him a poke."

"All right."

James hesitated, then blurted, "What did you really think of that art piece?" It had nothing to do with anything they'd been talking about, but he desperately wanted to know and it seemed that his subconscious had decided this was the time to ask.

Jeremy looked away over James' shoulder. "Sometimes even _I_ run out of words," he said, which wasn't an answer, but before James could comment Jeremy took a breath and said, "What other work has he done? Is it all that… twiggish?" His tone was resolutely cheerful now and James was taken aback by the suddenness of the change. He was too flummoxed to do anything other than reply in kind.

"Er," he said. "Well, there was the one with the snakeskin…"

\-----

Richard woke himself with his own snoring half an hour later, just as James was beginning to think about 'accidentally' kicking him much as he'd accidentally attacked Morgan's plums.

"Mmmph, wha—?" Richard said.

"Time for little boys to go beddie-bye, I think," said James. Richard reached out and smacked him without lifting his head.

"Fuck off."

Jeremy sniggered. "Someone is cranky," he said, sing-song.

"Oh, Christ, I can't take both of you like this," said Richard, but this time he sat up, giving a tremendous yawn. "What time's it?"

"Eleven thirty," James said. "And honestly, I'd rather be in bed myself. C'mon."

"All right, all right," Richard said; he wobbled as he stood up. "Give me two minutes in the bathroom, yeah?"

James nodded and started gathering up their detritus. Jeremy watched him for a moment, eyes distant, then suddenly seemed to realize that he wasn't helping and began to collect the bottles.

"Cheers," said James.

Jeremy favored him with a smile and they carried everything back into the kitchen. James half-wanted to clean up properly, but he was bloody tired and so he settled for stuffing the food cartons into the bin and letting Jeremy pile the bottles in the sink. When he turned around, he found Jeremy watching him again.

"Stay?" James said; it came out embarrassingly needy. He wanted to say something else, make a joke of it, but he couldn't think of a thing.

Jeremy smiled, but after a moment he shook his head. "Best not." He tipped his head in the direction of the chaise to indicate Richard's presence. James didn't know quite what to make of it – it wasn't an unreasonable comment, but something about the way Jeremy said it felt like it was as much an excuse as it was the truth.

"'Course," James said, because what else could he say? "See you in the morning?"

"I'll call you," Jeremy said, which wasn't reassuring at all, and he leaned in to give James a swift kiss before heading to the door. Richard came out of the bathroom just as Jeremy was stuffing his feet into his shoes.

"See you tomorrow, Hammond," Jeremy said. James was annoyed at how easily Jeremy had committed to seeing Richard; he knew he was being ridiculous, but it stung nonetheless.

"See you."

Jeremy slipped out, and James had to force himself to turn away from the door. "Blankets and pillow over there," he said to Richard, pointing, and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he came out again, Richard had put together his makeshift bed and was huddling beneath the blankets. 

"I'm surprised Jeremy didn't stay," he said, yawning. "I meant to ask – how are things with you two?"

"Oh," James said. "Fine."

"Fuck's sake, May," Richard said. The aggression of the words was somewhat unconvincing given that he sounded two inches from falling over. "Don't give me fucking 'fine.'" He yawned again. "Wanker." 

"It _is_ fine," James said, as mildly as he could manage. "G'night, Hammond."

"James—"

" _Good night_ , Hammond," said James, and shut the bedroom door behind him.

\-----

Over the next two days, Richard slowly drove James to the brink of homicide. He talked too much; he insulted James' music choices; he moped during supper and then switched into manic mode just when James wanted to wind down. The only uninterrupted enjoyment was the few hours they spent going over James' syllabus, trying to make it less mind-achingly dull for both him and the students, but even that didn't last. James did his best to cut Richard some slack, given the circumstances, but by Monday afternoon he knew that the strain was beginning to show.

"Right," Richard said, after an exhausting twenty minutes of him sitting on the chaise talking about his 1:00 class and visibly trying not to twitch. He stood up. "I'm going for a run. I'll be at least two hours."

James wondered why he was announcing that, then realized it was because he was giving James time to invite Jeremy over and have a shag. He gave Richard a grateful look and said, "Enjoy your self-inflicted leg torture."

"That description is going to get old for you sometime," Richard said. 

"It hasn't yet."

"Just wait. Your day will come." He disappeared into the bathroom and came out wearing his running gear, an outfit that was both hilarious and tragic. "Not another word," he said, catching the look on James' face as he sat to tie up his shoes.

James held up his hands in faux-surrender. "I was only going to say have a good time."

Richard flipped him two fingers. "Of course you were."

As soon as he was gone, James pulled out his phone and texted Jeremy. 'Hammond's gone for a run and he'll be ages. Come over?' They'd seen each other Sunday morning, for brunch at a café down the road, but Richard had been there too and it wasn't the same. James wasn't sure what he'd do if Jeremy said no. 

But Jeremy's return text said, 'I'll be there in fifteen minutes.' James spent the intervening time tidying up, folding the blankets from the chaise and tucking them away underneath it in order to clear a space for them to sit. Jeremy wouldn't care, of course, but it made him feel better. 

His pulse jumped when the buzzer went at last, and he tried to calm it for one hopeless moment before he opened the door. "All right?" 

Jeremy looked a little stiff, but his mouth turned up into a smile almost immediately and he came in without hesitation, kicking off his shoes. "Yeah. It's… good to see you." He stretched out a hand and curled it around James' bicep. "How long did you say Hammond's going to be gone?" 

"Two hours," said James. "Minus the time it took you to get here."

"Ah." They stared at each other for a moment. James had to admit that the idea of risking Richard's arrival mid-fuck was deeply unappealing. Still, that didn't mean they couldn't do anything at all. 

He leaned back against the wall, pulling Jeremy with him until they were pressed close. "Just kiss me," he said firmly. Jeremy laughed, the breath rushing out of him, and obeyed.

They stayed there for a while, kissing, lazy and lax. James felt his shoulders easing at the feeling of Jeremy's weight on him, the warmth of his mouth, the soft slick tease of his tongue. He closed his eyes and let himself go, falling into a daze.

Eventually Jeremy tugged away, muttering something about his back, and they moved to the chaise. The late afternoon sunlight dappled across Jeremy's face and the white of his hair. James hooked a foot over the back of Jeremy's calf to hold him close, and they moved together in a slow rhythm. It was good – Christ, it was good – and they just barely managed to keep it from tipping over into the sort of desire that meant dragging each other into bed. Sometimes Jeremy would murmur his name, shivering, or James would do the same, and then they'd ease off for a few minutes until they were calmer.

Richard turned up just as it was beginning to get dark, ringing the buzzer first and then waiting a minute before he let himself in with the spare key; James was grateful for the time to sit up and straighten himself.

Richard was sweaty but noticeably calmer than he had been, and favored them both with an exhausted smile. "All right?"

"Yeah," said James. "You?"

"Good, yeah. You two had dinner?" The sly grin on his face made it obvious what he thought the answer would be.

"Not yet," said Jeremy. "Want me to go out and grab something?"

"That'd be—"

Richard's phone buzzed from where it was strapped to his arm, letting out a jagged squeal of electric guitar. It was a familiar noise. It was the noise that meant a text from Oliver. 

"Fuck," Richard said. His eyes had gone wide. He didn't look down. 

"What does it say?" Jeremy said gently.

"I—"

"Hammond," said James, decidedly less gentle. "Look at the bloody message."

Richard flipped him two fingers, but he slipped the phone out of its holder and lifted it up.

"It—" he said. "It says 'come home.' He wants me to come home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That cheese really is good. If anyone wants my household's recipe for meatballs with dill in gjetost sauce, hit me up and I am happy to provide.


	29. Chapter 29

After Richard had gone – sweaty running clothes and all – they did actually shag: a laughing, shuddering, 'thank fuck that didn't end in horrible disaster' sort of shag. The earlier hesitation had disappeared like the pop of a soap bubble, and they fell into bed in a flurry of skin and hands and mouths. 

James licked his way down Jeremy's chest, rubbing his cheek over the pale hair and mouthing at Jeremy's nipples until he was gasping. He was sensitive there, sometimes too much so, but today it seemed to be just right and he let James lick and kiss and suck him for ages. Eventually he scratched his fingertips up over James' scalp and James took the hint, sliding back up so that they could kiss properly. 

"Evil," Jeremy murmured against his mouth. "You are absolutely a devil." James laughed and flickered out his tongue like a snake, teasing the edges of Jeremy's lips.

"Ssssshall I find you a nice, juicy apple?" he hissed.

"A nice, juicy _something_ , at any rate," said Jeremy, and rolled them over so that he was on top, his body something for James to rub up against as Jeremy fumbled in the drawer for lube and a condom. 

James laughed again, moaning. "I suppose you already have some of— _ah!_ some of those trousers with 'juicy' written on the arse."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Jeremy asked, reaching down to rub one slick fingertip over the edge of James' hole. 

"Have you not seen—" James started, but Jeremy pushed a finger in and he lost his train of thought entirely. He arched his back. "Christ."

"Good division of labor, that," said Jeremy, adding another finger without much ado. "I'll be Christ and you be the devil." He was grinning, but his face was flushed and sweaty and his eyes were fixed on James' face.

"I suppose," James said, barely able to get the words out between gasps, "that means I get to tempt you."

Jeremy's pupils went wide and dark. "You do," he said. "Oh, you absolutely do," and then there didn't seem to be anything else to say until they'd both come and were drowsing in the dark, and even then it was only, "So, do you still want dinner?"

\-----

Jeremy did stay, that night, and they made plans for dinner on Wednesday. But as James was arriving at home after his three o'clock class, his phone buzzed with a text. 

'Can't do dinner,' it said.

James blinked at the message. It was considerably more abrupt than Jeremy tended to be, but then another message came on its heels.

'I have man flu.'

James stared for a moment, then flicked the text app closed and hit Jeremy's name in his favorites list. It rang once before the click of the line being picked up.

"H'lo, James." Jeremy sounded miserable, his voice gone nasal.

"What on earth is man flu?" said James.

"The flu," Jeremy said. "But manlier."

"Is it."

"Well. Yes. Because I am a man." He sniffled. James was beginning to suspect that Jeremy was under the influence of a little too much Night Nurse.

"You are definitely that," he agreed. "No doubt about it." Jeremy laughed hoarsely. "Want me to come over?" James continued.

A moment of silence. "Maybe later," Jeremy said.

"Oh." James wasn't particularly experienced with sick people, and wasn't sure that he objectively wanted to be in Jeremy's flat full of germs, but he was obscurely disappointed nonetheless. 

"Look, the truth is I'm a lousy patient," Jeremy said. "I get petulant and whiny, and all I want to do is watch terrible movies and sleep. So save yourself from all of that and I'll call you when I'm better."

"I—"

"Really."

"All right," James said, confused, but there seemed nothing for it but to express a few clichéd well-wishes and get off the phone.

He pottered around the flat aimlessly for a while, pulling out albums to listen to and then disliking his choices instantly. Eventually he found himself angrily pushing things back onto the shelves and stopped, standing awkwardly with his palms spread flat against the ridged edges of the records. "Right," he said, and turned away into the kitchen.

He had sufficient ingredients – carrot, potato, onion, chicken breasts, broth – and a moment later he was chopping, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing. Helping someone in a moment of pain was one thing, but this was… premeditated care-taking. He could find ways to justify it; that was the beauty of being a philosopher, that you could make an argument for almost anything. But there was no point. Best to just do it, since he was going to do it anyway.

An hour later he was ringing the bell of Jeremy's flat. It took quite a while for him to answer the door, and when he did open it, James was taken aback by how dreadful he looked. His eyes were puffy red and his hair was limp against his scalp. He was wearing a plaid dressing gown, one that James hadn't seen before, which was threadbare at the elbows and fraying at the cuffs. There were crumpled tissues sticking out of several pockets.

"James—" He looked utterly baffled by James' presence and sounded, if anything, even worse than he had on the phone.

"When did you eat last?" James asked.

"Er," Jeremy said, and then, "Last night? I think?"

James pulled out the carton of soup from his shopping bag and shoved it into Jeremy's hands. "Eat," he said. Jeremy took it automatically.

"James—"

"Better yet, let me come in." 

"Er. All right," said Jeremy, somewhat bewildered. He held open the door. James took the container of soup out of his hands again and went in, heading directly for the kitchen.

"James—"

"Sofa. Sit." James set down the soup and his bag, pulled a bowl out of the cupboard, then lifted the lid off the pot on top of the stove and poured soup into it. After a moment he heard Jeremy's feet shuffle away, and the thump of a body onto a sofa. He lit the stove and filled the kettle, busying himself with finding a mug and some sugar and Jeremy's – horror of horrors – bagged tea. 

The tea was ready first and so James took it into the sitting room. Jeremy was on the sofa, watching him with a dazed expression, but he took the mug when James handed it over. He cupped it in both hands and blew across the top, obviously still on auto-pilot, then drank. Once he'd swallowed the first sip, his gaze sharpened a little. "James," he said.

"Yes?"

"This is tea."

"… yes?"

"It's not soup. There was— Did I imagine the soup?"

"You didn't imagine it," James said, feeling a little worried. "It's heating up." He reached over and set his palm to Jeremy's forehead: it was warm, but not alarmingly so.

"Oh," Jeremy said. "Good. I like soup."

James had to bite back a laugh. "Yes, I know," he said, pulling his hand away.

There were more crumpled tissues scattered all over the floor; he found the bin next to the coffee table and began gathering them up. Several were squashed between pages of the books in the pile at Jeremy's elbow, functioning as bookmarks. James cast around for something to use in their place, then gave up and folded over the corners of the pages as he took the tissues out. It pained him, but Jeremy wouldn't care and the germs were more important anyway.

When he looked up again, Jeremy was watching him with a dopey smile. 

"What?" said James, suddenly paranoid.

Jeremy shook his head. "Nothing."

The sound of soup bubbling in the kitchen reminded James of its existence and he turned away, trying not to fixate on that smile. Jeremy was ill, he reminded himself. Ill and under the influence of decongestant. 

The soup was warmed through and he poured some into a bowl, turning off the burner and putting a lid over the rest. He dithered over a spoon, then left it. When he went back into the sitting room, Jeremy was sitting up a little straighter. 

"Totally not imaginary soup," he said.

"That's right." James handed it over, agonized for a moment, and then sat beside Jeremy on the sofa. 

"Germs," Jeremy said, between sips.

"True," James said. He wasn't insensible to the issue. But it didn't seem as important as it might have done. Neither did Jeremy's somewhat haphazard slurping. 

"'s good soup."

"Cheers," said James. "It's a family recipe. No fancying it up or anything."

Jeremy hummed, which might have been amusement or approval or just acknowledgment. Normally it wasn't hard to tell the difference between those, with him, but the flu had made everything about him a little flatter somehow.

They sat without speaking as Jeremy drank the soup; the only sounds were his breath and the steady, almost rhythmic slurps. When he finally reached the end of the bowl he sighed and moved to set it down on the coffee table – James managed to snatch it out of his hand before it landed on the top of a precarious pile of books, and he nestled it between the stacks instead.

"How do you feel?" he said.

Jeremy stared at nothing in particular. "I— I'm all… muted." 

"Yeah," James said, trying to ignore the way his heart thumped at that. "Do you need anything else?"

"I want—" Jeremy said, then paused.

"Mmm?"

Jeremy hesitated another moment. James waited, more or less patiently, because he was beginning to learn that hurrying him along wouldn't do any good, and it especially wouldn't help now that he was so out of it. Eventually Jeremy reached over and manhandled James until he was sitting back against the arm of the sofa. Then he turned, slumping sideways so that he was resting against James' chest. "Shove me off, if you want," he muttered.

James closed his eyes for a long moment, trying to remind himself that this was only a sick person's need for comfort. "Shut up," he said. "Do you need a blanket?" Jeremy snorted a laugh. 

"'m good," he said. "Warm."

"Yeah." It was, with the two of them pressed together. 

They sat in silence for a moment. James would have liked to stroke Jeremy's hair, but of course that would be ridiculous. Then he did it anyway, because he couldn't stop himself – but Jeremy sighed and curled into the touch like a cat, so James carried on.

It was soothing to run his hand through Jeremy's hair, to feel it soft against his palm and a little greasy from being unwashed. Soothing enough that he felt like perhaps he could let something out. "Can I tell you something?" he asked.

"'Course," Jeremy mumbled. 

"I— the other day, the one when I had that headache."

A hum.

"I'd run into Oliver," James blurted. "He and I had words – well, mostly I had some words first, and then he had the words 'fuck off.' Repeatedly. Which I realize now was rather well-deserved. I just lost my temper about this whole thing, I suppose, and I know it was stupid of me to bring it up with Oliver because it's none of my bloody business, but I hate seeing Richard with that kicked-puppy look on his face. And then afterwards I just didn't know what to make of it all, and that's why I didn't tell you about it." He took a deep breath. "I should've told Richard right away, but I didn't, and then I— I suppose I thought that maybe I'd fucked it all for both of them, and—"

The train of words was broken by the soft but unmistakable sound of a snore.

"Oh," said James.

\-----

Jeremy woke after an hour or so; he was still groggy, though, and so James carefully put him to bed, sponging his face with a damp cloth and putting two boxes of tissues on the bedside table. He hesitated a long moment, then set the alarm on his phone and climbed in. It felt like something was twisted up inside him, but… he didn't want to leave. God help him, he didn't want to leave.

\-----

Things were odd, in the morning. Jeremy was somewhat better but still sick enough to have moments of vagueness, moments when his brow was furrowed and he obviously wasn't listening to what James was saying. James wanted to be understanding about that; he _did_ understand, at some level, that it wasn't intentional just as the previous night's sudden sleep hadn't been intentional. And yet… 

He knew he could go on sometimes, that he could be boring enough to drive everyone around him to heavy drinking. God knew he'd been told that often enough. But he still hated the moments when it was obvious, when someone switched off mid-conversation or even mid-sentence and started visibly trying to come up with somewhere else they urgently needed to be. Jeremy falling asleep had been perhaps one of the worst variations on that theme. An ultimate indignity.

And yet Jeremy seemed grateful that he had stayed, grateful not just for the presence of someone to make coffee and tidy up but grateful for _James'_ presence in particular. He'd look at him with that stupid smile, or lean his head against James hip when he was sat at the kitchen table and James was standing next to him, gathering up the dishes.

It was all so confusing that James lingered longer than he meant to and then had to hurry out abruptly in time to make his morning class. "I'll see you later," he told Jeremy, leaning down to give him a kiss as he made his exit, and he was out the door before he had a chance to hear Jeremy's reply.

\-----

He didn't, in the end, see Jeremy later. James texted after his last class to ask how he was feeling – but Jeremy just replied 'fine, cheers,' and James didn't feel like he could turn up unannounced a second time, having made enough of a nuisance of himself already. 

Another text, from Richard, interrupted his melancholy briefly. 'Coffee Sunday? Lots to tell you – good stuff.'

'You sure Ols will let you out of bed by then?' James sent back. 

'Har har har,' was Richard's reply. 'You sure Jez will let you out, too?'

James didn't have the heart to tell him that he wasn't sure about anything with Jeremy, not anymore. Instead he just sent, 'Har har,' back and then suggested a time. Richard agreed, and they left it at that. 

After that, his mood soured even further, and that night he slept badly in his own bed, too cold, hearing his own breath echoed back at him in endless, ragged circles.

\-----

He stumbled through Friday morning's class, only just saving himself from mixing up Epicureanism with Empiricism, which would have been a bit of a disaster even if it did make for entertaining exam papers. Afterwards he lingered wearily over the task of gathering his papers; when he finally had everything stuffed into his bag, he came out into the hallway and nearly ran into Richard.

Richard broke into a smile at the sight of him. He looked good: lighter, shoulders easier, mustache twirled just so in a way that indicated he cared about what he looked like.

"All right?" James said. He couldn't help smiling at Richard's obvious happiness. 

"Yeah, brilliant, brilliant," said Richard, clapping James on the shoulder as he went past. "I was fucking thrilled to hear your news, too, mate. Knew you were being ridiculous. Got to rush, though – you'll have to tell me about it on Sunday."

"Mmm?" James said, rotating to follow him. "Wait, what?"

" _Jeremy_ , you idiot," said Richard, pausing in his path and turning back, pivoting gracefully on the balls of his feet. "He's taking the permanent position, right? Or has he got something else here lined up—" 

He stopped talking abruptly, obviously having registered James' expression. "Oh," he said. "Oh, shit, James, I thought you knew they made him a permanent offer. I— overheard Wilman talking about it in the hallway and—."

James didn't hear the end of the sentence, could barely hear anything above the roaring in his ears. Jeremy obviously wasn't going to take the offer, but that wasn't even the point. It was that he hadn't said anything. Maybe that was because he hadn't wanted to get James' hopes up, because he was trying not to be cruel. Or maybe it was because he hadn't even spent three minutes considering the idea and had forgotten about it already. 

Or maybe it was because he didn't even care enough about James to ask his opinion. 

James could remember that first encounter with Jeremy, the way he'd swept in like a summer storm and then out again just as quickly, before James had even had a chance to do more than learn his name. Obviously that was what he'd intended to do with James' life, too.

This – _this_ – was why sleeping with friends was a bad idea. Why falling in love with someone was a bad idea. He tried so bloody hard not to want more than people could give. It was easier if it was just sex from the outset, because at least then he knew, he was prepared, and when it went wrong he could let go with barely a pang. And it did go wrong: stupidly, awkwardly, bitterly, inevitably. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he worked to keep things going.

He'd been lying to himself about this all along, he could see that now. Letting himself think that he had a chance for something with Jeremy. How had he thought he'd be able to escape the truth, escape the one essential fact about himself?

That it was always the other person who wanted to leave, and always James who wanted them to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillme


	30. Chapter 30

James left Richard there in the hallway, not caring whether he followed or didn't. As it happened, he didn't, which meant that James didn't have to control his expression when he barged out through the double doors into the ragged strip of grass that was nominally called 'the Dean's garden,' although the only thing that ever got planted there was fag-ends. He didn't even know what his expression might have indicated. Everything in his head was a mess, despair and rage and empty resignation, impossible to separate.

By the time the rage eclipsed the others, most of the grass had been flattened under James' pacing feet. The heat of his anger surprised him; he'd thought he'd long since given up on expecting anything but the worst, and how could he be so angry when this was all he'd predicted from the very first moment? But he was angry nonetheless.

How could Jeremy do this to him? How could he crush all of James' hopes, when they must have been obvious for months? How could he do it without a word to ease his leaving? James didn't even know _when_ Jeremy planned to go, since he'd never said. Maybe it would be the day after the term ended. Maybe he couldn't wait to get away.

James' feet carried him out the end of the garden and onto the south lawn. He had turned towards the arts quadrangle before he realized what he was doing – but once he did realize it, he didn't stop.

Jeremy's office was down at the far end of the west corridor, with a view out his windows that overlooked the library steps. The door was set back into a niche in the wall and so James could hear him before he could see him, the murmur of his voice that had become as familiar to James as any of his favorite songs.

He reached the office and discovered Jeremy standing just there, holding the door open for a girl with a backpack and a notebook who'd obviously been waiting outside. He blinked in surprise as he caught sight of James, mouth opening.

James cut him off before he could even start. "I need to talk to you," he said. "Right now."

Jeremy gaped at him for a moment, then turned back to the student. "Kara, let's reschedule," he said. He still sounded a bit raspy in the throat from his cold. "Pick some times that are good for you and send me an email, and I'll make myself available. I'll give you an extension if necessary."

"Er…" she said, and then, "sure, Mr C. I'll email you." She darted a glance at James as she left, but he could only spare half a second's attention to considering what sort of gossip would be all over the university by this time tomorrow.

Jeremy took a wordless step back, leaving enough room for James to go past, then closed the door behind him. "Well?" he said.

James took two paces across the available floor space, trying to marshal his thoughts before he turned. "Why didn't you tell me they asked you to stay on?" he asked.

Jeremy flinched as if stung, and his face twisted into a complicated expression. " _Why_?" he spat. "Because you sure as fuck made it clear that you don't care." For the first time since they'd known each other he looked properly angry, enough that James nearly took a step back before catching himself. Still, he reflected, at least the shouting had started. That was familiar.

"Of course I care!" he hissed, trying to keep his voice down.

"Then why didn't you say something? Why didn't you ever ask me to stay?" Jeremy was nearly whispering, too.

"Because I thought you were going to leave!" said James. 

"That doesn't make any sense," Jeremy said.

"Of course it makes sense," James said. "And it's not as if you told me you were even thinking about staying."

"Because when I called you darling, you pretended you hadn't heard it! And you didn't say it back!"

"Because I knew you didn't mean it! People say all sorts of bollocks during sex. And you didn't say it again."

"Because you didn't say it back!"

They stared at each other for a long moment. Jeremy looked as flushed as James felt, and his hands were clenched into fists at his side. "What on god's Earth made you think that I'd just walk away?" he said plaintively. "Am I that much of a thoughtless ass?"

James opened his mouth and then shut it again. _What the hell,_ he thought. He met Jeremy's eyes. "You'll get tired of me," he said. "People do."

"Well, I'm not people!" said Jeremy. "And they're a pack of bloody fools if they couldn't love you as much as I do."

"I—" said James. And then stopped. He swallowed. 

"Oh, for—" Jeremy threw up his hands. "How could you not know that?" he hissed. "You have to be the stupidest man in the entire universe. I've met _pork pies_ with more brain cells. For fuck's sake, James. Of course I love you."

"Well, no one's ever said it before!" 

"What?"

"Not when they didn't have their cock in me, anyway." He'd been aiming for crude but it only came out bitter, and he could tell that it hit hard when Jeremy's face twisted up.

"Oh, James."

"I don't want your pity," James said sharply.

"It isn't pity," Jeremy growled. "It's a potent desire to find everyone you've ever dated and _fucking kill them_."

James' heart hammered at that unexpected vehemence. He had no idea what to say, but didn't have a chance to do more than sputter before Jeremy was crossing the three steps between them and cupping James' face in his hands. "I love you," he said. "I'll say it as many times as you like, whenever you like." 

James closed his eyes. "Don't be sentimental," he said, but his voice was rough. He put his hands on Jeremy's waist, pulling him close. "It's embarrassing." Jeremy kissed him in reply, sloppy but intense, more passionate than skilled; James found it impossible to do anything other than kiss back. Jeremy smelled like himself – book dust and almond soap and coffee – and he was warm enough to make James shiver.

When he pulled away at last, James braced himself for more recriminations, but instead Jeremy just took a breath and said, "Look. I— It goes both ways, you know. I'm thoughtless and pushy and useless at anything practical and I talk too bloody much—"

"Bollocks you do," said James, but Jeremy put a hand over his mouth, and he shut up.

"My point is," said Jeremy, "that every relationship I've ever had has ended with someone calling me a selfish cunt. So you'll have to excuse me if I— if that's a factor in how I do things."

It was depressingly easy for James to translate that last bit in his head. 'I've learned not to ask for anything at all.'

"I'm— I'm needy, I know that," Jeremy continued. James made a muffled noise of disagreement, but Jeremy just carried on over him. "And I want taking care of sometimes. But I couldn't bear it if you were just going along with things out of, oh, good manners or boredom or, or… whatever. So I didn't say anything. All right?" This time he seemed to be actually waiting for a reply, but he didn't take his hand away and after a moment James had to lick his palm to remind him it was there. Jeremy huffed out a rueful laugh, pulling back. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, you utter twat," James said, but he tried to put every ounce of his affection into it. "Just…" He didn't know how to say any of the things that were bubbling up in his throat, not without sounding absurd. If only he had one percent of the talent with words that Jeremy had. "Just let me have you," he said at last. It was completely inadequate, but Jeremy seemed to get the idea nonetheless.

"You have me," he said. James kissed him then, and kissed him, pushed Jeremy against the wall and carried on kissing him.

It wasn't the restrained sexuality of Monday's kisses, trying not to get carried away, nor the desperate 'fuck me now' that they'd had so many times in the past. It was deeper, more intense; James' hands were clenched into the fabric of Jeremy's worn-thin tee underneath his blazer. Jeremy seemed equally unable to let go, one hand still cupping James' face and the other curled at the base of his neck. 

James felt oversensitized every place that they touched, and he was practically buzzing by the time he was able to pull away. "Take me home with you," he said. Jeremy sucked in a sharp breath.

"Yes," he said. "Yes."

\-----

Jeremy's flat wasn't far, but James didn't quite know what to do with himself as they walked. What would they be to each other in public now? There were too many options; James didn't know which of them Jeremy wanted. He didn't even know which of them _he_ wanted. They'd have to talk about it at some point.

Oh Christ, they'd have to talk about it.

James darted a glance at Jeremy out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge what he was thinking. Jeremy was looking back, and they twitched away almost in unison. Maybe they were both still unsure.

It was so much easier once they reached the flat and went in. Here, James didn't have to think of Jeremy as if they'd just met, as if they were strangers. Here, he knew how to just _be_. Jeremy seemed to feel it, too – he reached a hand up to touch James' face, pulling him closer, and then they were kissing again as intensely as before.

Jeremy's hand was achingly warm, his fingertips callused where they brushed against James' earlobe and the hinge of his jaw. He stayed there for long moments, touching just that skin as if it might be all he was allowed. James refused to let that thought linger; he ran his hands up under the hem of Jeremy's shirt, spreading them wide and demanding. Jeremy shuddered, swaying closer, and his breath quickened. James kissed him more deeply, trying to encourage the closeness. 

Only when Jeremy had let out a soft, relaxing breath did James dare to lean back, even a little. "Take me to bed," he said, a kiss between each word. "Tell me what you want." 

Jeremy closed his eyes. "Would you fuck me?" he asked.

James pulled away to look at him. "You want that? You know you don't have to."

"I know," Jeremy said, opening his eyes again to give James a serious look. "I do know. But I do want it. Sometimes; not all the time, not by any means, but sometimes. But I can't just— It's intense, and I can't just roll over and have a smoke after. It doesn't work like that." His shoulders hunched.

"You need taking care of."

"I know that's a lot to ask."

"It isn't," James said fiercely. "By god, who told you that?" It was horrifying, the idea that someone could be so cruel. 

"It was a long time ago," said Jeremy. James could tell that wasn't quite the truth, but Jeremy carried on before he could say anything else. "Look— You said you want to have me. Well, this is me. Part of me, anyway. You can't have the rest without this. I won't _let_ you have the rest without this."

James wondered how many people had tried to take only bits of Jeremy, tried to carve away everything that was loud or awkward or inconvenient. He thought about how hard it must be for Jeremy to stand his ground here, to demand what he should have had all along.

"Let me take care of you," James said. "Please let me." He lifted a hand to Jeremy's face, trying to match the way Jeremy had touched him earlier. It was terrifying – even more than talking about his ink, even more than his admissions in Jeremy's office, even more than bringing over that damn soup. But he could do no less.

"Come to bed," Jeremy said, and James knew that for yes.

It took a long time to get undressed; one of them would step back to remove some article of clothing, but he would barely be finished before the other pulled him back in for another kiss. James was addicted to the feeling of Jeremy's skin, the way his beard shivered over James' mouth, the breadth of his chest and the long stretch of his legs. Jeremy seemed equally attached to the sweep of James' hair, his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone. 

By the time they were naked, Jeremy's lips were red from kissing and his eyes were that particular piercing blue-grey that James had found so devastating the first time they met. 

"Beautiful," James said. Jeremy flushed sharply, and he kissed James again rather than reply. James gloried in it for a long moment, then finally made himself focus. "Lie down with me," he said, drawing Jeremy towards the bed.

Jeremy stretched out on the sheets, head on the pillow. James knelt above him, pressing their bodies together as he leaned in to share another kiss, trying to coax Jeremy into relaxation once more. He stroked his hands over Jeremy's bare shoulders, down and then up again to caress the line of his neck. Jeremy shivered at the touch and put his hands on James' hips, rocking up against him. "James— Oh—"

"Yes," James murmured. He matched Jeremy's movements, letting their cocks rub together slowly. "Yes, that's good. Let me feel you." It was intensely good, the slick, soft head of Jeremy's cock and the thick hardness of his shaft against James'. "So gorgeous."

Jeremy moaned, fingers clenched into James' hips. "You— _ah_. You feel incredible." He leaned up a little and so James met him halfway and kissed him again, sweetly and open-mouthed. Jeremy sucked at his bottom lip and James groaned, grinding down harder with his hips until they were both gasping. 

Eventually he tore himself away, kissing the corner of Jeremy's mouth, his cheek, his ear. "How d'you like it?" he asked softly. "Ask me for it. I'll give it to you."

"I— will you suck me a bit?" Jeremy said, his breath ragged in his throat. "Slowly. Then your fingers. And then… up here, like this." He turned his head to kiss James again. "So I can see you."

"God, yes," James said. He slid downwards slowly, letting his mouth trace a meandering path down Jeremy's neck and across the span of his shoulders. Then his chest, kissing Jeremy's white sprinkling of hair, kissing his nipples one by one, licking at them, sucking a little.

Down again, bypassing Jeremy's cock in favor of kissing the jut of his hip. The skin there was softer, thinner, almost delicate; James licked at it, drawing aimless shapes. He could taste the remnants of precome from moments before and he lapped at it eagerly. 

Then Jeremy's cock at last, a kiss to the base of it and then drawing his tongue slowly up the underside. Jeremy made a desperate noise in the back of his throat and James rewarded him with a lick across the head before he parted his lips and went down, just a little. Jeremy put his hands in James' hair, tugging lightly, and it was James' turn to groan.

He carried on sucking, palms stroking over Jeremy's thighs, inwards, thumbs scraping over soft skin. He teased over Jeremy's hole at last, just lightly, getting him used to the idea. Jeremy sucked in a sharp breath, tilting his head back; James looked up and he could see the long, pale line of his throat, begging to be kissed. He rubbed a little more, firmer, not quite pushing in but hinting in that direction. 

" _Fuck_ ," Jeremy said, "oh, fuck, James, yes."

James pulled off for a moment, reaching over to fumble in the bedside table for the lube and condoms, not wanting to look away for even a moment. He found them at last and set them beside him on the bed, slicked his fingers. Then down again, sucking Jeremy's cock back into his mouth with a groan of pleasure. 

Touching him with slick fingers was even better than before; he could let his fingertip press in, softly, slowly, easing Jeremy open. He tried to match his sucks with the rocking of his hand, coaxing Jeremy's hips into movement. Another finger, careful, slow, spreading him a little and then a little more. Jeremy was panting, moaning, tugging on James' hair as if he'd lost the ability to control himself. 

It was everything that James could have wanted. He loved having Jeremy inside him, of course, but though this was different, it was equally exquisite – Jeremy's soft skin, the heat of him, his scent, the feeling of him yielding and open. The sweetness of the way he shivered at James' touch.

James found Jeremy's prostate, stroked it softly, and Jeremy shoved himself down onto James' fingers with a sharp gasp. "One more," he said, voice shaky. "One more and then fuck me, please."

It was easy to obey. James pressed in a third finger, sucking tightly on Jeremy's cock to ease any discomfort. But Jeremy seemed to feel none, just groaned desperately, shuddering, head thrown back once more. When he looked down again, his eyes were feverish. "Now," he said, "now, come here, I need you."

James couldn't resist that. He lifted his mouth from Jeremy's cock and carefully pulled his fingers free, then hurried to put on the condom. Jeremy's hands went to his biceps, pulling him upwards into a frantic kiss. "Please," he said, the word muffled against James' mouth. "Please."

" _Yes_ ," James said, and then he was easing in, bracing his palms against the bed. Jeremy spread his legs to make it easier, then hooked one ankle over the back of James' knee to tug him in close.

It was good, so incredibly good. Jeremy's warmth and the sweat on his skin and the soft noises he was making. "Christ," James said. "The way you feel. The way you sound. Your voice makes me ache."

"James—"

James kissed him, slick and urgent. He began to rock in and out, shallow thrusts at first and then harder, deeper. Jeremy moved with him, pulling him down so that they were chest to chest, James pressing him into the sheets. His cock was hard and slick as it rubbed against James' stomach.

" _God_ ," Jeremy said. "James, yes, just—"

James loved the way he lost his words mid-sentence like this, as if it meant he had some magical power over Jeremy that no one else could have. He recognized the thought as greed – but what was love, after all, except the greed of wanting someone, wanting them to be happy, wanting to _make_ them happy? 

He pushed in deep, holding Jeremy's hip so that he could fuck into him with the slow, intense roll of his hips, over and over. They kissed, and kissed, and kissed until James could barely breathe from the thundering of his heart. Jeremy's curls were a crumpled mess against the pillow and there was sweat dappled down his cheeks, sweat and precome gathering between them. James couldn't help but say his name in between kisses, couldn't help but cling to him as if there was still some chance that he might decide to slip away.

Jeremy was moaning with each thrust, beyond any attempt at words now, his kisses wild, his hands on James' shoulders and curled at the back of his neck, holding tightly. James could sense his shivering desperation, his tenuous control – and he knew with a strange and sudden certainty that this all might become too much for Jeremy soon, might overtake him in a way that would become frightening rather than pleasurable. It was there in the way he thrashed against the sheets, the way his breath shuddered. 

"Will you come for me?" James asked, kissing the question against the corner of Jeremy's mouth. The rest of it came out without any conscious thought at all. "Come for me now, yes, come, darling—" and Jeremy arched backwards and came with a gasping cry. He caught James' eyes with his own as he did so, his expression wild – and James was lost entirely, pushing in hard and coming with a drawn-out groan as he kissed Jeremy one more time.

They breathed together for a long moment after that, James' skin fizzing with the aftermath. Eventually his breath calmed – but Jeremy's didn't. He was shivering and he'd tipped his head down, face pressed into the hollow of James' neck. James held him, heedless of the condom and his own sensitive cock and the mess between them. He wormed his arm around the back of Jeremy's shoulders just to envelop him a little more. Jeremy made a helpless little moan.

"I've got you," James said. He stroked a hand over Jeremy's hair. "I've got you." He thought of his own occasional experiences like this, how very few of his partners had bothered to do anything about it at all. He'd ended things with them every time. "You're all right."

"Sorry," Jeremy muttered. His shivering hadn't quite stopped. 

James didn't quite know how to respond to that, but he suspected that a flat denial of the need for apologies wouldn't do the trick. "You're incredible," he said instead. "Beautiful. That was… amazing."

Jeremy kissed the underside of his jaw without replying, but he slowly went lax in James' arms. After a long time he kissed James' jaw again and then lifted his head to meet his eyes.

"James—"

"I love you," James said. "Please stay."

Jeremy breathed in, slow and deep, and then out again. "Let me text Andy that I'm taking the job," he said, but he buried his face in James' hair as if he couldn't bear to let go just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more after this.


	31. Chapter 31

The flat was filled with mismatched boxes, piled three and four high in stacks that looked precarious but which were, James had been assured, perfectly stable. There didn't seem to be anything like enough room to put all of their things, but he had measured the flat thoroughly and there _were_ two bedrooms – one for actual sleep and one for the desk and their combined masses of books and records. 

He had his doubts about their ability to keep it at a standard of cleanliness and order that wouldn't drive him mad… but it would be worth it. There was no doubt about that.

Richard and Oliver had been and gone, leaving behind two housewarming presents and a selection of ribald comments that James intended to scrub from his mind as soon as humanly possible. The presents, however, were welcome – Richard's was a bottle, tall and thin with an elegant art nouveau motif on the label, twirling ivy vines. Only upon closer examination did one notice that the vines formed the shape of a cock and balls and that the bottle held expensive lube. Jeremy absolutely loved the thing.

Oliver's gift was a loaf of bread. James knew it for the symbol it was, more for him than for Jeremy. They'd apologized to each other months ago – James for sticking his nose in and Oliver for telling him to fuck off without explanation – and Oliver had _said_ that the encounter had done him good, in the end. Had made him see what his actions looked like from the outside. But James had still worried over things even after that conversation, had found himself thinking of it in moments when he was alone and his life struck him as too much a fantasy to be real. The bread, though, meant more than any words Oliver could have used.

Other friends had been and gone, too, bringing a motley collection of things: Andy with two bottles of rosé; Oz with a bottle of vastly more expensive wine that was probably too pretentious for either Jeremy's taste or James', although they'd drink it anyway; Stephen and Alan-the-moppet with a clock where all of the numbers were made out of different hideous fabrics (James was already planning to hang it in a corner of the bathroom where he'd have to look at it as little as possible and maybe the steam would ruin it); Sandi, also from the theatre department, with a sensible and delicious-looking basket of food that would sustain them through the next few days of unpacking; Colin with a nice record and an invitation to come and play with the band some afternoon; Sarah with an abstract painting that appeared to be halfway between a swan and a bicycle (Jeremy absolutely loved that as well). It had been a parade of people with varying levels of helpfulness and sense, which was just about par for their collection of friends.

And now at last they were alone together, in this place that was their own.

They had been getting to know each other all over again throughout the summer. Jeremy was more opinionated than he had been before and he was more physical in moments that weren't about sex. He'd made some friends of his own – Phil and Iain from the film department, Kiff from music, Fran from the antique bookshop down the road – and James was learning how not to feel jealous about the time that Jeremy spent with them when he wasn't around. 

James had taken up his keyboard again, alternating between playing his old favorites and trying to write something new. He'd worried that he might have forgotten how, but the project was coming along, albeit slowly. And he was trying to be more honest about himself, less secretive, trying to open up about the moments that had shaped him. That, too, was happening slowly. But the way that Jeremy listened made it possible.

By the time that everyone had gone and they'd made a path between boxes to the bed, the sun had sunk low behind the buildings opposite, filling the sky with fading golden light.

"We should christen the place," Jeremy said, leaning over the edge of the counter in the kitchen. It was practically the only surface that wasn't covered in boxes or housewarming gifts. "You know, like breaking a bottle of champagne over a ship when you launch it. Only I wouldn't want to waste the champagne."

"We haven't even got champagne to waste," James pointed out. "Is there a metaphorical equivalent?"

Jeremy hummed for a moment, then got an enormous grin on his face.

"Oh, no," said James. "Whatever you're thinking, stop it right now." But he leaned his shoulder up against Jeremy's, feeling the play of muscle underneath his thin tee.

"All I'm saying is that other fluids exist."

"You are utterly puerile," James said, trying to sound disapproving and missing it by a mile. "I can't believe that I love you."

They didn't say it often these days, mostly because after four months neither of them needed frequent reassurance anymore. But James liked to say it occasionally nonetheless, just as a surprise, just to see the soft look that came into Jeremy's face. Jeremy did that, too.

"But you do love me," Jeremy pointed out smugly.

"It's true." James ran a hand up Jeremy's back, scratching fingernails into his hair.

"And you're going to let me suck you off right here."

"I suppose," James said with a sigh, but he was smiling. He tightened his grip on Jeremy's hair and pushed him gently downwards. Jeremy went to his knees and began unbuckling James' belt, looking up at him with a besotted expression on his face. James slid his hand down to cup Jeremy's cheek, feeling warm skin and bristled beard against his palm, and he suddenly knew that he was home.

With Jeremy, he would always be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There have been so many of you who helped this story along the way. First thanks have to go to luluxa, whose beautiful art inspired me and got the whole thing started. I love everything she makes and it's been such a delight to have her images in my mind.
> 
> Also many thanks go to the CHM twitter crowd for their frequent encouragement and willingness to suggest things when I asked. 
> 
> And, of course, thanks to all of you who have read, kudos-ed, and commented along the way. I've really enjoyed writing this story and it's made me so happy to know that others were getting enjoyment out of reading it. <3


End file.
